Zen and the Art of Relationship Maintenance
by terriblemuriel
Summary: Brittany is going on tour for the summer.  Santana wants a relationship, but doesn't know how to accomplish that with Brittany on the road and her feelings still in turmoil.  Both girls spend the summer learning about who they are and what they want.
1. Prologue

**A/N: **

**Betas are like orgasms: they are best when they come in multiples. And I have multiple people to thank for giving sweet feedback, excellent writerly advice, and the occasional boot to the head. Jeune fille en fleur and themostrandomfandom (on tumblr) are my lovely and talented betas and deserve all the awards! Read their stuff, they are amazing!**

It comes as no surprise to anyone (especially Santana who, after two and a half years on the Cheerios knows a) just how dangerous those routines of Sue Sylvester's are, and b) how fucking agile Brittany really is) when Brittany takes the Ohio State Women's Under 18 Motocross Championship for the second year in a row.

What does come as a surprise, however, is the very slick looking guy in the suit who approaches an ecstatic Brittany after the race with both his card and an almost Faustian deal. Santana is immediately wary; she doesn't like the looks of this guy at all. For one thing, he's way overdressed for a motocross meet. He's wearing a suit and shiny lace-up shoes and he tiptoes delicately through the mud alongside the track. His hair is slicked back with way too much product and Santana just doesn't trust anyone with Will Schuester hair, besides Will Schuester (and some days, even he is questionable). His watch is too large and his smile too bright and well… let's just say she doesn't like the looks of him. Period.

Brittany is flabbergasted by the deal. Amid her family and her coach, her teammates and Santana, there is not a closed mouth when the guy offers Brittany a spot on the MX2011 Power-Ade Summer Motocross Tour. The opportunity comes with a healthy sum of money, full sponsorship of gear, clothing, travel expenses, and (Santana sees Britt's eyes glaze over with something like lust when it's mentioned) a brand new Kawasaki KX450F for her to keep at the end of the tour.

The offer means Brittany will have to give up her amateur status. It means she'll need to leave right away to start training for the show, which kicks off the east coast leg of the tour in just two weeks. It means she'll be gone all summer. Santana wants to tell her to say no, to tell her not to trust this sleazeball devil with his shiny shoes and too-good-to-be-true offers.

Fortunately for Santana, Brittany's dad is no dummy. And he's also no pushover. At 6'2 with a blonde ponytail to rival his daughter's and the patches of several Hell's Angels' rallies on his leather jacket, his imposing figure steps right up to Mr. Slick and tells him that, as Brittany's agent, his lawyers will need to look over any and all contracts before Brittany can consider his offer. The wattage of Mr. Inappropriate Footwear's smile dims. Still, he pulls a heavy envelope from inside his jacket pocket and passes it over. He will be in touch, and would Ms. Pierce please, please consider his offer?

With his departure, the group goes back to celebrating, cheering on both Brittany's exciting win, but also the most astonishing news. Well, most of the group. Santana is not so thrilled with the idea that Brittany might be leaving for the summer. Not this summer. This summer was supposed to be her time to get her shit together, woo Brittany, work on their relationship, and start making a plan for being together at school next year. This fucking summer was supposed to be about love: Brittany and Santana love. It was not supposed to be about Brittany touring the country all summer showing off her motorcycle skills to horny teenage boys, or worse, horny teenage girls, all of whom want an autograph, a hug, a ride on her bike, a visit to her hotel room… Santana shakes her head to clear that thought, but realizes that she is suddenly nauseated and not at all in the celebrating mood.

The party moves to the Pierce household and it is not until hours later that Santana can get Mr. Pierce alone and in a serious enough mood to discuss her misgivings about Brittany's offer. He assures her that he absolutely has Brittany's best interest at heart and that it is probably a bogus offer anyway and not to worry.

Mr. Pierce has several lawyer clients who bring their Harleys in to his bike shop for repairs, and after the third one in as many days looks over the offer and pronounces it sound, Brittany starts giving some serious thought to going on tour.

The Pierces aren't rich and the salary for 3 months touring is more than Mrs. Pierce makes all year at her teaching job, so this opportunity is a big one for Brittany. Giving up her amateur status is no big deal. Frankly, there's not a lot further she can go as an amateur anyway. And now that she's off the Cheerios, there's no expensive and exhausting cheerleading camp to attend this summer. Brittany passed all of her classes, so she doesn't even have to attend summer school. There is nothing keeping her from signing that contract and going on tour. Nothing, except for one person: Santana Lopez.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Special thanks again to my lovely and talented betas: jeune fille en fleur, themostrandomfandom and, new to the beta team, grownupspashley. Without their talents, wisdom and patience, this fic would not exist.**

Chapter 1

"Britt, it's gonna be like a thousand fucking degrees in Florida in June, I don't think you're gonna need your furry panda hat," Santana says as she surveys what has to be every single item of clothing Brittany owns which are currently spread across her bed. The sun is setting through her west window, tinting everything a pale orange.

"But San, we only start training and do the first four shows in Florida. Then we move our way up the East Coast. We're gonna go to Maine, San, Maine! I've never been to Maine, and they've got forests and the ocean, and I heard it gets cold there too."

"It gets cold in the _winter_ in Maine, Britt. Just like it does here. You won't need your panda hat or your arm warmers or even this… what is this?" Santana asks as she holds up what looks like two hard plastic shields joined by black padding.

"That's my chest protector, San. I need it in case I crash. It's unbreakable and will protect my heart and lungs from puncture if I break a rib." Brittany presses her body against Santana's back, wrapping her arms around her and pulling the chest protector tight against Santana's chest like it's supposed to be worn. The thin plastic feels like the only thing separating Brittany's hands from her breasts, as if her clothing has dissolved. "You do want my chest to be protected, don't you?" she asks, purring into Santana's ear.

Santana gulps, acutely aware of how dry her mouth becomes the instant Brittany's hot breath wraps around the shell of her ear. "Um yeah, of course I do. Gots to protect your chest, right?" Santana is trying to act nonchalant, but it's hard with Brittany's breasts and hips pressed into her back, her hands against her chest and her warm words in her ear. This is the closest they've been in a long time and Santana is loath to admit that just this mere touch from Brittany is turning her on.

Despite the many scenarios racing through Santana's mind, she can't respond to Brittany's touch in any of the ways she wants to. She can't turn around, wrap her arms around Brittany's neck and pull her into a searing kiss. She can't throw the chest protector to the ground and mash Brittany's hands onto her breasts. She can't tilt her head back unto Brittany's shoulder and moan into her ear. She can't say, "I want you," or "I love you," or especially, "please don't go." Instead she says nothing, letting the moment pass as her eyes dart to the window and stare at the setting sun, trying to convince her flustered body to settle.

Brittany is the first to pull away, dropping the chest protector unto her bed into what she calls the "absolutely, positively can't-go-on-tour-without" pile. Santana moves away, picking up and fingering the lettering of Brittany's "I'm with Stoopid" t-shirt, which is in the same pile.

"Um, B?" Her words are tentative. She doesn't know when she became so afraid to ask Brittany for things. "Can I keep one of your shirts while you're gone?" She holds up the white tee in one hand, Britt's pirate cat tank in the other. She has a preference, but she doesn't want Britt to know that.

"Sure, San. Whichever one you want."

Santana knows she doesn't mean it; she is eyeing the tank nervously.

"I think I'll take this one. We don't want people on the tour to think you're stupid, cuz you're not. They won't get it the way the glee kids do." Santana doesn't tell her that the shirt has significance. She doesn't say that when Brittany embraced her faults, when she put on the shirt and danced—while Santana watched from the darkened auditorium, too afraid to allow anyone to see her own secret emblazoned on her chest—that _that_ was the first time Santana had really felt small. It was the first time she'd had a chance to take a stand, and she'd blown it. Brittany had called her on it, proving that she was anything but what was written on her shirt. Santana's pretty sure that she was the stupid one then, and that she's sure as hell the stupid one now.

The desire to grab Brittany and hold her, to crush her so tightly, to render her so compact that Santana could swallow her inside herself like a puff of smoke or a sip of liquor, overtakes her. Santana feels a burning in her throat and an ache in her chest that threatens to turn into a sob. But she powers through it, jaw clenched. She eyes the chest protector, wondering if perhaps she needs it more than Brittany. She wonders if the thin armor is enough to protect her heart if it gets punctured.

In an effort to relax, Santana throws the t-shirt over her shoulder and the scent of _Brittany_ wafts over her. She closes her eyes for a moment, relishing it, but resists the impulse to wrap the shirt around her face like a scarf, inhale deeply and savor the heady aroma as if it were $100 an ounce French perfume. Right then and there Santana vows to not wash the shirt all summer.

Brittany shuffles around the bed, tidying her piles. She doesn't say anything as she moves a few shirts from one pile into another and pulls some hats out of her "nice to have, but not necessary" pile. The "must pack" hat pile alone is already bigger than her suitcase.

Although Santana swore she would be supportive, it's proving difficult to watch Brittany pack. She wants to say something about how she doesn't want Brittany to go. Or how much she's going to miss her. Or how she really just wants Brittany to herself this summer. Unable to watch, she turns away from the sorting, nose still full of Brittany's scent, the image of Brittany bending over her bed still burned onto her retinas, and spies Brittany's gear bag, laying open by the door.

She kicks the bag and is met with a hiss and a scampering gray tabby cat. Santana assumes it's Charity, as Lord Tubbington is far too fat to scamper anywhere. Without the cat, the bag is empty. "Why is this here, B? I thought the tour was providing all your gear."

"Well… " Brittany drawls as she offers Santana one of her trademark half-grins, "I was kinda trying to figure out a way I could fit you inside it so you could go on tour with me." Brittany approaches Santana, laying a hand on her waist. Santana sees the look in Brittany's eyes and for just a second wants nothing more than to succumb to that look, to surrender to Brittany's sweet words, to crawl right into her gear bag without qualms. But before Brittany can grab her waist with her other hand and pin her against the wall, Santana sidles out from under her and beelines for Brittany's desk.

"So…" she glances around for a distraction, anything to take her mind off the tingling of Brittany's fingertips as they fall from her skin. Her gaze finally falls on Brittany's new smart phone. "Your parents finally let you upgrade, huh?"

"Yep. I convinced them that I needed it to keep in touch while I was away. It's got all the best features; I can text, email and video chat. It can even take video so I can keep up with my Fondue-for-Two interviews." At the mention of her YouTube show Brittany frowns, "My mom refused to let me pack the fondue pot though. I just don't understand how she thinks I can do the show without it."

Brittany takes the phone from Santana, her fingers grazing against Santana's hand longer than is probably necessary. "I've already got all my contacts programmed, and some people even get their own special rings." She touches a few icons and the sounds of _Trouty Mouth_ fill the room.

Santana smiles, her cheeks almost, but not quite, reddening, as she brings out her own phone and touches icons until _My Cup_ begins playing. "I have every intention, Brittany Susan Pierce, of hearing this song every day this summer. You know what that means, right? It means that you have to call me. Every. Single. Day."

"Of course I'll call you every day, San. You know I can't go to sleep without hearing from you."

It's true. Even in the darkest days of the past school year, Santana did not let a night go by without calling or texting Brittany to tell her good night and she has no intention of stopping their nightly ritual now just because Brittany isn't lying in her bed a mile away.

That's when it hits her, really hits her: Brittany is going to be gone all summer. And she's going to be around a lot of new people who are all going to get to know a Brittany who doesn't have Santana by her side. She feels the sudden need to mark Brittany, brand her with "Property of Santana Lopez," so all those motocross bitches will know that Brittany is hers. Brittany is _taken_.

But then she remembers that Brittany isn't hers. Brittany is a free agent. Brittany is just her best friend. Too afraid to jump (or is it fall?), Santana hasn't taken that next step yet, and now it's too late. Once again, her cowardice is allowing Brittany to slip through her fingers.

"Britt, I…" She takes a step toward Brittany but hesitates as she catches Brittany's gaze. It's dark and uncertain and questioning. She knows that she's hurting Brittany—she can't help it, this is all just so hard—and besides, Brittany's leaving is hurting her right back. Doesn't she realize that?

Without warning, Santana's eyes fill with tears.

"San…" Brittany purses her lips and nods. She holds out her arms and Santana realizes she does get it. She gets her. She's always gotten her.

Brittany takes two steps to close the distance between them and gathers Santana in her arms and then Brittany's embracing her and they are both collapsing to the floor, sobbing.

Minutes later both girls are drying their eyes and wiping their noses, Brittany is peppering Santana's face with soft kisses and Santana is finally finding the strength to release her tight hold on Brittany's neck. They are both a hot mess, and in the moment that they look at each other and realize it, they laugh. The spell is broken and they look away from each other as they climb to their feet.

"Hey San, I got an idea," Brittany says, as she pulls Santana back into her arms.

Santana knows she shouldn't want this as much as she does, but the desire to just hold Brittany is too great to allow her to let go for long. She rests her head on Brittany's shoulder as she replies, "Yeah Britt, what's your idea?"

"Take a ride with me."

"What?"

"Come and take a ride with me. On my bike."

"But Britt," Santana swallows, "You're not allowed to do that. Your bike's not built for two people and I don't even think it's street legal. And do you even have a license?"

"C'mon San. Live a little. It's my last night in town and I wanna take you for a ride. I wanna show you why I'm leaving. What this tour means to me."

Santana pauses, the "no" caught in her throat.

"C'mon, San. Please."

Unable to speak, Santana just nods and they are heading down the stairs, Brittany pausing only to grab her Cheerios jacket from the coat closet and hand it to Santana. As Brittany leads her past the living room, Santana can hear the rest of the Pierces laughing as they watch TV. She has a very strong feeling Mr. Pierce would not approve of their adventure and she joins Brittany in tiptoeing out the back door.

Once outside, both girls head for the shed that holds all of the Pierce family motorcycles. Santana doesn't know much about motorcycles (okay, she knows nothing about them) but she can guess that the very large one with all the leather paraphernalia is Mr. Pierce's and that the very small one is Brittany's little sister's starter bike. Santana feels like that might be the one she'd be comfortable on, but Brittany is leaning over her own racing bike, pushing it by its handlebars out of the shed.

Brittany's bike doesn't look like much. Her dad doesn't always have the time to fix every scratch or dent, but Santana knows it's in excellent mechanical condition and that Brittany's a good driver. Still, her stomach knots as Brittany offers Santana a helmet as they leave the shed.

"You can wear Ashley's helmet," Brittany says, handing it to her. Santana looks at the helmet; it's pink and when she turns it just right, it glitters in the fading sunlight. It's about half the size of Brittany's motocross helmet, which sports a large visor and even larger mouth guard, and Santana wonders how it will do her any good at all if she hits the pavement at 60 miles per hour.

"Don't worry," Brittany says, misinterpreting Santana's worried look. "It'll fit, she's got like a huge head for an eight year old. Put that Cheerios jacket on. You'd better tuck your hair in too, so it doesn't get tangled."

Brittany dons her helmet and leather racing jacket and Santana notices that Brittany has clipped and tucked her own hair, making her look very butch as she pushes the large motorcycle down the drive and into the street. Santana would be remiss if she didn't notice just how _good_ Brittany looked in her motorcycle gear. She wouldn't admit it to anyone, most especially Brittany, but Santana has routinely brought herself to orgasm thinking about Brittany in that suit after attending every single one of her race meets since age 13. As Brittany turns to throw a smile over her shoulder at her, Santana feels a rush of warmth flood her panties. Damn it, why does she have to be so hot? Refusing to smile back, Santana focuses on fitting the helmet to her head and slipping into BBBrittany's Cheerios jacket, which is too big, but like the t-shirt, smells just like her. Santana sighs. She just can't win.

Turning the corner of her block, Brittany deems it safe to fire up the bike. She presses a button and the thing roars to life, startling Santana. Brittany mounts the bike, grabs the handlebars, punches a lever with her foot and motions with her head for Santana to climb aboard.

Maybe this requires re-thinking.

"C'mon, San. Just put your foot right here and climb on behind me. You'll have to hold on around my waist and there's no place for your feet, so put your legs over my legs."

She sighs. This is for Brittany.

Santana realizes that with the extra height of the shocks, once seated, her feet won't even touch the ground. She is tentative as she mounts the bike, throwing her leg over the seat behind Brittany. It reminds her of the one and only time she rode a horse at summer camp and that incident had ended badly. At least the motorcycle won't buck her off. She lifts her legs over Brittany's and puts her arms around her waist, loosely holding onto Brittany's jacket. Then Brittany slams the thing into gear and juices it and Santana is nearly thrown off the back. She clutches Brittany around the waist, locking her hand around her wrist.

"I told you to hold on!" Brittany yells back at her with a grin, and they are off. When Brittany takes the first corner, Santana leans away from the turn, fearful of tipping over, and the bike wobbles slightly.

"You gotta lean into the turns, San. If you fight it, it'll throw the balance off completely. Press yourself into my back and follow my motions. It's easy, just do what I do."

Seated as she is, practically wrapped around Brittany, Santana can feel every movement Brittany makes, and as she watches from over her shoulder as Brittany maneuvers the motorcycle, she marvels at the ease with which she does so. As they continue down the street, she can't help but be impressed. She smiles, and as Brittany speeds up, the smile turns into a laugh. Hearing it, Brittany laughs too and before they are even a few blocks away, both girls are whooping as they thunder down the street.

Brittany makes her way west out of town on the back roads. Subdivisions turn into farmhouses, which turn into miles and miles of cornfields broken only by the occasional impenetrable thicket of trees. It's been a wet spring and the corn is high for this time of year. Viewed from this speed, the tufts of each stalk transform into a collective golden haze that stretches into the dying sun. Santana notices that the temperature drops ten degrees each time they pass a section of trees, and before long her eyes can no longer take the punishing wind, so she closes them and rests her cheek against Brittany's back. The thrum of the engine vibrates through her entire body, and even through her leather jacket Santana can feel Brittany's heat. She loosens her grip around Brittany's waist, splaying her fingers first over Brittany's abs, then without reservation, Brittany's breasts. She once again thinks about Brittany's chest protector as she palms her breasts through the thick leather, and is glad that, though dangerous, right this moment Brittany's chest is unprotected.

The unbroken line of road stretches endlessly into the horizon without a curve in sight. So Brittany isn't too worried when she takes her left hand off the handlebars and grips Santana's hand on her breast. Brittany's hand is cold because she's forgotten her gloves, but Santana can feel it melt into her own like fire; fingers intertwining like flames. Brittany brings Santana's hand to her face and slips just her first two fingers under her helmet and into her mouth. The tip of her tongue circles each fingertip lightly before her lips close around Santana's fingers, sucking them in up to the knuckle. Santana moans and grinds her hips into Brittany's ass in response. There is nothing else for her to do in the moment: she is wrapped around Brittany as tightly as possible doing 60 miles an hour down a deserted road on the back of a motorcycle. She grinds her hips harder and, unzipping Brittany's jacket, puts her hand inside it and kneads Brittany's left breast, her fingers rolling and pinching her nipple. Brittany sucks Santana's fingers even harder and she loses herself in the feeling, for just a second forgetting where she is. That is, until she feels the bike wobble slightly. Brittany's hand is back on the handlebars in a flash and Santana's hands resume their lock on Brittany's waist.

Brittany slows the bike to a crawl at the side of the road and turns around, announcing it's time they head back. Santana only nods, not wanting to move her cheek from Brittany's back.

It's dark by the time they get back into town, and the reason Brittany's not supposed to take her bike out on the street becomes apparent. Lacking a headlight, blinkers and brake lights, Brittany has to navigate her way home via streetlight, doing her best to avoid other traffic. It is with a true sigh of relief when both girls dismount the bike around the corner from Brittany's house and she kills the engine.

As she pushes the bike past the darkened house and into the shed, Brittany smirks at Santana and asks, "So, how did you like your first ride on the back of a _professional_ motocross rider's bike?"

Riding with Brittany was frightening, exhilarating, and titillating; yet, clinging to her back as they'd raced down the street, Santana had never felt so secure. Still, the entire night had been tinged with the melancholy of goodbye.

Santana frowns, unsure how to respond. But as she looks up at Brittany, red-faced and wind-blown, a proud grin stretching from ear to ear, she can't help but smile back.

"It was perfect, B. Just… perfect."


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: All the awards to my wonderful betas: jeune fille en fleur, themostrandomfandom, and grownupspashley.**

After stowing the bike and removing their helmets and jackets (Santana leaves Brittany's Cheerios jacket in the motorcycle shed with the full intention of coming back later to "liberate" it to her house), the girls enter Brittany's darkened house red-faced and grinning, taking turns shushing each other as they tiptoe through the living room. Santana is walking funny, the vibration of the bike's engine still coursing through her leg muscles, and Brittany can't resist imitating her. Her drunken stumble is both spot on and hilarious, and prompts another round of giggled shushing.

Heading toward the stairs, Brittany pulls her hair out of its clip, shaking her head to loosen her locks, and her hair tumbles down her back like waves onto the beach. Santana's giggle turns into a throaty growl as she reaches forward to run her nails against Brittany's scalp the way Brittany likes her to. Brittany leans into her hands as she scratches, a Cheshire cat grin on her face, a purr in her throat. Santana is wired from the bike—the thrum of the engine still resonates in her core, her wind-brushed skin still tingles with electricity—and when Brittany turns and puts her arms around Santana, every hair on her body lifts in response to Britt's touch.

"You and me. Upstairs. Now," Brittany purrs into her ear as she pulls Santana close.

Santana looks into Britt's hungry eyes and her mind flashes back to her fingers in Britt's mouth on the bike, and then to Brittany holding her in her room, and then to that time in the hallway at school when she finally got up the nerve to profess her love for Brittany. That was the hardest moment of her life. And now? Well, now she thinks things are better than the were, but they're still not _there_ yet, and Brittany is leaving, and sure they can _go upstairs_—she wants to _go upstairs_ so badly, it's been so long—but she's not sure what it all means. She really wants to say something about love and commitment right now, but she has no idea what that would be, so… she just nods. And grins shyly. And Brittany grins back, and grabs her wrist and pulls her toward the stairs.

Just as the girls reach the stairway landing, Brittany's mother steps out of the kitchen, robed and cupping a steaming mug against her chest.

"Been out for a nighttime walk, have we?" She smirks as both girls straighten and drop their grins pronto. Mrs. Pierce is as sweet as her daughter (at least Santana thinks so) but many years of wrangling first-graders has honed her ability to brook no nonsense when it comes to shenanigans. Also, tomfoolery. And Brittany and Santana have been repeatedly warned about both. They assume the position: spines straight, hands clasped behind their backs, eyes cast to the floor.

"Yes, Mom." "Yes, Mrs. P," they reply in unison.

"It is a such a lovely night for a stroll. I can just imagine you girls wanted to take one last walk down to the park to say goodbye to the ducks for the summer."

Santana and Brittany nod in agreement. In truth, they haven't been to the park to do anything other than drink beer and touch each other inside the tip of the rocket slide since they were fourteen, but what Mrs. Pierce doesn't know won't hurt her, right?

"And the sunset was particularly spectacular tonight, wasn't it?"

Again, both girls nod, but Santana is starting to feel a churning in her stomach. She side-eyes Brittany, trying to read the enigmatic look she's wearing.

"Must have looked absolutely stunning from the back of the bike at sixty miles a hour." Mrs. Pierce brings her mug to her lips to sip her drink, and also to hide her smirk.

Santana's cringes; she's so busted! It's her last night with Brittany and it's ruined. They are in so much trouble and now she's not going to get to spend the night or see Brittany off at the airport tomorrow. She's not going to get to tell her good-bye like she wanted to. She opens her mouth, slipping into the _I can explain everything_ mode she's perfected for teachers, mothers and cops.

But Brittany is just nodding. Her grin is sly as she leans into her mother and hugs her hard around the shoulders, jostling her mug arm. "It was beautiful, wasn't it San?"

"What I saw of it," Santana mumbles, eyes still trained to the ground. She's shocked that Brittany 'fessed up so easily—although, why she should be, she can't imagine. Brittany's lies are usually so ridiculous only the most gullible (like Finn) ever believe them. She resigns herself to awaiting their punishment.

"Good thing your father's been listening to his iPod all night and couldn't hear a thing," Mrs. Pierce mutters into her mug. Santana thinks there's might be a twinkle in her eye as she hugs Brittany with her one arm and then lets her go, only to pull Santana into a similar hug. Santana's been hugged by Brittany's mom a lot—like a LOT, a lot—the Pierces are a very touchy-feely family. But this one feels different. It feels adult, like they are somehow equals, bonding over a shared secret.

"Are you all done packing, Brittany? We have an early start tomorrow." Still holding Santana, Mrs. Pierce's eyes sharpen again as she turns back to her daughter.

"Mm-hm," Brittany hums with a nod. Santana's eyes widen as she thinks of the numerous piles still littering Brittany's room and the hours still ahead of Brittany rearranging said piles.

Mrs. Pierce turns to Santana, still under her arm, and says, "You know how I can tell she's lying, San? By that little crinkle she gets between her brows. Also, her eyes almost always shift to the left. You ever noticed that?"

Playing along, Santana scrutinizes Brittany's face. "You know, you're right. And have you also noticed that more often than not she bites her lip too?" They stare at Brittany with her brows scrunched, lip caught between her teeth, and eyes askance. They smile and wait until she finally breaks.

"Okay fine. I haven't packed yet. Are you happy? Geez, I thought you guys _loved_ me and might actually miss me this summer. But I guess not." Brittany goes into pouting mode: she frowns, crosses her arms, and slumps against the banister.

Santana knows Brittany is joking. She knows Brittany's mom is joking. But the moment the word _love_ comes out of Brittany's mouth, Santana's stomach plummets. She freezes, still tucked under Mrs. Pierce's arm. Her face is a silent mask, only her eyes widening at Brittany's admission.

But Mrs. Pierce is laughing. "Oh I do love you. And of course Santana loves you too. Don't you, San?" She gives Santana a knowing smile, to which Santana gulps. "And we're totally going to miss you, _IF_ you ever get packed and actually leave the house." She places a sweet kiss on Santana's temple as Santana draws a shaky breath. Mrs. Pierce releases Santana and places a similar kiss on the side of Brittany's head.

"Now get upstairs, you criminals. Brittany, you get packed and don't keep Santana up all night taking your clothes on and off." Santana's eyes bug. "I know how you like to plan out your outfits. Five a.m. is kind to neither mothers nor motorcyclists."

Brittany grabs Santana's hand and pulls her up the stairs. Looking down at Brit's mom as she trips upward, Santana sees her smile and wink before she turns, takes a sip from her mug and moves down the hallway.

Brittany slams the door of her room behind them and twirls Santana against it before she can even register the movement. She pins their entwined hands above Santana's head and places her other hand in Santana's, drawing it above Santana's head as well. Knuckles slide against wood as Brittany leans into Santana, grinning.

"Now," she growls into Santana's ear, "let's continue what _you_ started on the bike."

But Santana's not moving quite as quickly. "Oh my god, Britt! You do realize what you just said to your mom, right? That I love you?"

"Yeah, so?" Brittany closes the gap, pressing her body against Santana's. First breasts, then hips, grind together. Brittany's eyes are dark and half-lidded as she lowers her mouth to Santana's.

"Britt, wait. What do you mean? What have you told your mother about us?"

"Nothing." She mumbles as her brows furrow, eyes slip left, and teeth grasp her bottom lip.

"Brittany, you're lying!" Santana struggles to free both of her hands from Brittany's grip and, grabbing her by the shoulders, pushes her away. Their faces are inches apart, but the intensity is so much different than it was just seconds ago. Santana tries to catch her breath as she stares at Brittany, waiting to hear the truth.

"San, you know how she is. She gives me that _look_ and I just can't help it. The truth just starts coming out. It's like vomit."

"What did you tell her?" Santana whispers. She can't find it in herself to raise her voice, but the fear and the anger are still so apparent that Brittany pales.

Pause.

"Everything."

Brittany's words are hushed. The giggling, fake-pouting, seductive girl from minutes before is gone. Vanished. Brittany shrinks back from Santana, her eyes blank with fear.

_Everything._

Santana's not sure if she blacks out or just stops breathing. Maybe she's having an aneurism. Either way, she finds herself slumped on the floor at the base of Brittany's bedroom door, the burn of skin sliding against wood competing against the jack hammering of her heartbeat in her ears for most painful body part.

She can't breathe, she can't think, she can't move. Brittany's image continues to shrink away, although in truth, she's drawing closer. Her voice echoes from the other end of a long tunnel.

"San? San, are you okay?" Santana's vision clears and Brittany is kneeling in front of her. She might even be tapping her cheek. Out of her peripheral vision, she sees Brittany's hand coming toward her face, but she feels nothing. Her entire body is numb.

Santana's only desire, as she struggles to draw breath, is to curl up and die. She wants to go fetal right here in Brittany's bedroom, to close her eyes so tight that nothing exists outside of her own skin. Instinct brings her knees to her chest, her arms locking around them. She curls into herself, the size of a marble, eyes closed and so drawn, so small, tight and round, she could roll away and get lost under Brittany's bed forever. It would just be her, the bell from Lord Tubbington's collar, several out-of-ink pens, a Barbie head, an bunch of old boy band posters and an outgrown pair of ballet slippers; the detritus of Brittany's childhood, cast away, forgotten.

But Brittany won't let her get lost. She's right there, in Santana's face, pulling her chin up, brushing her cheek with a delicate fingertip, staring her down.

"Santana? Honey?" Brittany's blue eyes catch the light as she cants her head to look deeply into Santana's eyes and in that flash, Santana is back. She finds her breath and inhales deeply, pulling air all the way down into her toes. And with it comes anger, filling her every molecule. Like smoking her cigars, the taste of the emotion is acrid in her mouth, but she relishes the rush it gives her. This, she understands.

"You told your mother everything? As in, "everything" everything? What the fuck, Britt!"

Brittany's eyes are downcast, but she's quick to answer, to explain before Santana's anger takes over.

"She knows we've been besties forever and she wondered why you weren't hanging around as much this year. And then when Artie and I broke up, she wanted to know what was wrong. And I couldn't help it, San, I just told her how you told me that you loved me and how Artie called me stupid and how I wanted to ask you to prom, and I dunno, I just told her that I wanna be with you and that you wanna be with me too. But we're not sure now, you know. Not sure how to make it happen. And that we're scared too, of what being together will mean. And how people will treat us differently. But she knows I want this. She knows I want _you_, San." She finally takes a breath. For someone who's forte is dancing and not singing, Brittany really has amazing breath control.

"I want you, Santana Lopez. You. I love you and I want to be with you. And I don't care about the looks or what people say behind our backs. I just want you. Please say you want me too. Please?"

Santana is stunned at first, to hear her own words thrown back at her like that, but as Brittany's eyes search her own, as Brittany's voice pleads with her to love her, Santana thinks about how close she came to losing Brittany this year. Not because she wasn't always around—at school, or even in her house or her bed—but because Brittany is changing. Growing. Moving on, with or without her. Just like this motocross tour; Brittany is heading out in the world at a full charge, and if Santana wants Brittany in her life, she's going to have to keep up.

Santana thinks about what it will take to bind Brittany to her, to make Brittany hers, to seal their fate. Brittany needs her to be different, needs her to give something, anything, that lets her knows that Santana is committed. That was her original plan for the summer, right? G_et shit together, woo Brittany_, _work on a relationship. _She trembles. God, this is all moving so fast.

Looking Brittany hard in the eye, Santana sets her jaw and nods. It's the best she can do for now. The adrenaline of her recent panic attack is still locking her muscles to her bones, her knees to her chest. It still hurts to breathe. Her head still swirls with too many thoughts and images and emotions to process with too little oxygen. But Brittany doesn't care. Her face breaks into a wide grin and in that instant Santana's small, curled frame is engulfed in Brittany's arms.

"I love you, San. I love you _so much_. We can make this work, okay? You and me? I want that so bad." Brittany is peppering Santana's face with little ghost kisses. Her lips, her nose, her eyelids, her jaw, all receive a whispered "I love you" peck from Brittany. And as each touch of her lips pulls a little more of the fear from Santana's body, she feels her muscles loosen and her breathing lighten. She softens into Brittany's arms until her head is resting on Brittany's shoulder.

Brittany's kisses become languid as they move down Santana's neck. Her murmurings are incoherent. Her hands trace soothing patterns on Santana's back. Santana didn't realize she was so exhausted until a sigh escapes her lips and her eyes flutter closed.

"C'mon San, let's go to bed." Brittany whispers as she pulls them both to their feet.

"But what about your packing?" Santana eyes the piles of clothing on Brittany's bed. There isn't even a bare spot for her to sit. Brittany grabs her gear bag and with a swoop of her arm, clears half of the bed's contents into the bag. A second swoop leaves the bed bare and with several hard tugs and a final zippered flourish, she throws her arms in the air and announces, "there, all packed!"

Santana can't help but laugh. It's one of the many things that she loves about Brittany—her ability to not let anything get in the way of what she wants. She pulls Brittany into her arms in a desperate embrace as she whispers into the warmth of her neck, into the smell that she knows so well as _Brittany_. "I love you, Britt. And I really want to make this work, okay. I'm really gonna try." She gulps, steadying herself. "And even though you'll be away all summer, I want you to think of us as… _together_, okay?"

"Mm-hm." Brittany nuzzles Santana's neck, kisses turning deep and wet; her soft nuzzles becoming hard nips. Without reservation, she presses her body against Santana's and lowers them both to the now cleared bed. "So, can we get our cuddle on now? Please?"

"I don't know if that's such a good idea, B. What about your parents?"

Santana questions the strength of her conviction with each nip along her neck as Brittany settles her body on top of her own. Santana's body betrays her as it welcomes Brittany home like an old friend. Her arms wrap around Brittany without forethought and her chest expands to pillow Brittany's weight. She inhales Brittany's bouquet; a mixture of her lavender and mint shampoo, sweat, and a faint whiff of arousal, which becomes headier as her body heats upon contact.

"San, they KNOW. Well, not the gory details, but they know why I wanted you to spend my last night here with me."

"You told you dad too?" Panic seeps back into Santana's body. Mr. Pierce is not someone you want mad at you.

"Well, no. You know my dad; all he ever wants to talk about is motorcycles and rock n' roll. We're _still_ having that Beatles vs. Elvis debate. But I'm pretty sure my mom told him. He did ask how you were gonna cope with me being gone all summer?"

Santana can help but relax under Brittany's comforting words and soft caresses. Brittany's hands wander along Santana's sides as she speaks. With each stroke, her fingers catch at Santana's shirt and raise it slightly higher while fingertips graze along the sensitive skin at her waist.

"He asked about me?" Santana is finding it hard to keep her train of thought with Britt's hands doing that, but still, it's important that she ask.

"Yes. And they're going to ask you tomorrow to come over once a week for dinner this summer. But you can't tell them I told you that. I think it's s'posed to be a surprise." Brittany's kisses extend from Santana's ear to her collarbone and with one final push her hands are under Santana's shirt lifting it above her breasts and then over her head, and it is scraped as cleanly from Santana's body as Brittany's clothes were scraped from her bed.

"NOW, can we please stop talking about my family? I want to make love to you, and they're not invited to participate." Brittany sinks back down on top of Santana, her hands caressing her covered breasts.

Santana's every synapse is firing, her every nerve taut: her desire for Brittany is killing her. They're _making love_? This means something now. Something more than it did before.

Brittany's eyes glint like fire as she lowers her mouth to work tender kisses from Santana's neck to her chest. Santana is sure she can see Brittany smirk between pecks as she works her way down the valley of her breasts, her tongue tracing a line across Santana's skin between each kiss. Her thoughts grow more muddled with every tongue caress and each little kiss takes her breath away.

"Your sister knows too?" Santana can hardly get the words out as Brittany unhooks Santana's bra (thank god for front clasps) and plucks an already hardened nipple between two fingers, rolling it into an even harder peak.

"Shush," Brittany replies as she eyes Santana one last time. Her look is expectant, her smile greedy. She just needs one more thing from Santana besides her silence.

Santana surrenders in the form of a slight nod.

Brittany's mouth on her nipple is like accelerating on the bike. It's zero to sixty in no time flat and she's wet. A flood of warmth hits her between her legs and she gasps, back arching off the bed. She can feel Brittany grin as her tongue circles Santana's wet nipple before she takes it between her teeth with a gentle nip. She sucks it hard into her mouth, then releases it with a pop as Santana cries out. Then it's circle, nip, suck, pop. Circle, nip, suck, pop. Her hand works Santana's other nipple with rolls and plucks, until Santana begins a steady moaning and Brittany exchanges her mouth for her fingers to give the other nipple equal treatment.

Santana softens and her thighs drift apart as Brittany's hips settle between them. She's clutching Brittany everywhere, her hands floating along Britt's back, neck, and shoulders. They find her hair and sink into the fine silk, the strands running through her fingers like water. She seizes Brittany's head and pulls her back up to meet her mouth.

"B, I wanna feel your skin." Between kisses, Santana plucks at the hem of Brittany's shirt and Brittany, with her limber dancer's grace, twists an arm over her head and pulls the shirt from her back barely breaking the kiss. Santana's eager hands reach behind to unhook Brittany's bra and both of their hands unceremoniously drag it from between their bodies. Santana's skin sizzles as Brittany's full breasts sink onto her own. An almost pained sigh escapes her.

Then Brittany's mouth is back on Santana's and they are kissing and their tongues meet and Britt's doing that thing where she nips at Santana's lower lip and Santana isn't sure now which feels best; Brittany's cool mouth on her own, Brittany's warm breasts grazing against her nipples, or Brittany's hips rubbing against her hot center.

Santana is torn. She wants nothing more than to rip the rest of Brittany's clothes off and make her come. Loudly. Yet she also wants to take this slow, to savor Brittany's taste in her mouth, Brittany's slow touch as she caresses her neck and arms, Brittany's warm skin melting into her own.

Brittany works her way down Santana's neck with little nips, her teeth catching skin and tendon as she traces a path down Santana's sensitive jugular. Ever the willing participant, Santana turns her head, stretching her neck, opening herself up to Brittany's teeth. Were she a predator, Brittany could easily rip out her throat, and Santana wouldn't even care. She'd die willingly under Brittany's savage mouth.

Santana's hands are still stroking Brittany's hair when Brittany grabs them, entwines their fingers, and pulls her arms out to their fullest extent. Brittany covers her; palm to palm, chest to chest and hip to hip, her mouth still at Santana's throat, and Santana has never felt more stretched open, more vulnerable. She wants so badly to curl inward, to wrap herself around Brittany, to bring them both inside her body for protection, but she fights it. With a deep inhale, she relaxes under Brittany; she trusts her.

Brittany moves her kisses, tender now, from Santana's neck to her collarbone, her tongue filling the hollow below San's throat. She once again moves her mouth to San's nipples, giving each a quick suckle before bringing her hands in to grasp Santana's waist and shimmy both her body and her mouth further down. A light trail of wet kisses cools Santana's stomach, which is hot from Brittany's body. Santana moans as Brittany kisses around her navel, and squirms when she dips just the tip of her tongue inside. Brittany knows her belly button is ticklish and she jumps out again, a grin on her face, her tongue now making a wet path toward Santana's hipbone. Sensitive fingers trail along the edge of Santana's panties; each pass dips a centimeter closer to the elastic than the last.

"Take them off, B," Santana hisses as Brittany's tongue follows the trail of her fingers and traces her panties' edge from hipbone to hipbone. Brittany complies, hooking her fingers under the elastic and pulling down. She smirks and kisses each uncovered inch of bare skin that is revealed as she slowly peels Santana's underwear off; sitting up only to grab Santana's ankle and tear them off completely.

"Now yours. I wanna see you."

And again, Brittan is happy to comply as she unbuttons her jeans and pulls them down to reveal superman boy shorts. Santana smiles. God, she's never disappointed with anything this girl does. Brittany grins back at her, and shimmies the underwear down her hips, a little dance helping them along their way as they pass over her thighs.

Brittany kneels between Santana's legs, her mouth setting a blazing line along Santana's thigh, and oh, how she's missed this. It's not the fact that Brittany knows more than anyone how to turn her on—because GOD, does Brittany turn her on—but the feel of Brittany's soft hands on her, the weight of Brittany on top of her, her very pores opening up to drink Brittany in, that renders her powerless in Brittany's presence.

Santana gasps with surprise as Brittany reaches out to trace a finger between her legs. Her thighs drift even further apart with each slow, gentle stroke and as Santana watches Brittany watch her own hand brush two fingertips against Santana's sex, she's struck by how much Brittany needs this too.

For two long years they've done this dance; they kissed each other, touched each other, made each other come, and still tried to say it didn't mean anything. Now, there are emotions involved, and this means everything. Santana realizes this is what Brittany meant. With feelings, it _is_ better.

"What do you want, B?" She whispers, knowing the answer will mean so much more than what she's used to.

"I want to go down on you. Is that okay?" Brittany whispers back, her eyes flicking up to meet Santana's before dropping down again, unashamed, leering at Santana splayed before her. "I want tonight to be special, so you'll remember me while I'm gone this summer. And I know that we've kinda done that before, but you never really seemed that into it and I just thought maybe this time I could make it really good, you know." Her voice drifts off as she captures her lower lip in her teeth.

"B. Every time I'm with you is special." Santana sits up and sandwiches Brittany's face between her hands. "Every. Time." She punctuates each word with a kiss. "Don't you know how much I want to be here with you and how much it's killing me that you're going away? I was going to spend this summer wooing you, making love to you," her voice drops to a whisper, "asking you to be my… girlfriend." But as she captures Brittany's lips again, tongue tracing tentatively along each lip, she continues with more force, "we can do anything you want, okay? And I know it will be special."

Brittany sighs into the kiss and, reaching up to her face, grabs Santana's hands and pushes her back down to the bed. They sink into each other again, Brittany once more kneeling between Santana's thighs. Every time they're together like this it feels good, but this time, it's right. One hundred percent meant to be. And as she feels the first hot swipe of Brittany's tongue as it runs the length of her, she's absolutely convinced of that. And as her eyes roll back and her back arches at Brittany's tongue circling her clit—first slow and soft, then faster and with a kind of direct pressure that seems to make her want to collapse in on herself like a dying star—she's so adamant about the fact that she wonders why she ever gave a second thought to them being together. And as Brittany tightens her grip on Santana's hips, lifting them slightly higher and sinking her whole mouth into Santana, lips and teeth and tongue all working together, she thinks about predator Brittany biting at her throat and knows that she was wrong before. _THIS_ is the most vulnerable she's ever been. And because it's Brittany, it's okay. And with that thought, she comes, a whole universe opening up behind her eyes, a universe of her and Brittany together, just like this. And as Brittany's tongue slows down, eking out the little aftershocks that jolt through her body, she opens her mouth, whispers Brittany's name, and sobs.

Brittany climbs up Santana's body and this time, Santana can't help it; she folds in on herself. Her arms cross her chest protectively and she rolls to her side, her knees curling to meet her stomach. But Brittany is right there to draw her in, to embrace her, to curl around her like a protective human shield. She murmurs into Santana's ear as she runs her hand along her forehead, cheek and hair, knowing that Santana will calm under her soothing touch.

When her sobs die down, Santana is reminded of Brittany's superman boy shorts and giggles. If she's never realized it before, she's finally getting it now—Brittany is the strong one. Santana's spent so many years protecting Brittany not knowing that she was really only protecting herself.

"B, I'm sorry. I don't know why… I mean, that was really good. I promise. I'm just… so…" if only she knew what to do with all these feelings, what this all means. But her thoughts drift away and her words are lost as Brittany continues to murmur in her ear, shushes turning into gentle kisses.

"It's okay, San. I know." Brittany tilts her chin up, tucks Santana's hair behind her ear, and clutches both of her hands in her own. "I'm here for you." Santana's questioning eyes raises to meet Brittany's. "Always."

Then they are kissing again, mouths hot and wet and needy. Santana rolls Brittany onto her back and leans over her and Brittany moans as Santana's breasts meet her own and they melt together, their skin like colored wax. The sound of Brittany in her mouth and the feel of her warm, pliant body beneath her, ignites something in Santana and her hands light and relight like fireflies, never able to settle anywhere, as the sudden need to touch every inch of Brittany overtakes Santana.

Brittany's hands wrap around Santana's back and her legs encircle her thighs as though she could pull her even tighter into her own body, and this turns Santana on even more. Brittany's desire to pull her in, to devour her, is intoxicating. It's just the thing she didn't know that she needed from Brittany—to feel protected in her embrace.

She kisses down the column of Brittany's neck, each touch of her lips eliciting a little puffed moan of pleasure. Brittany raises both arms to grab the headboard and give Santana full access as she works her way down Brittany's collarbone and shoulder to kiss her armpits. Brittany's grunts turn into a steady keening, her lip caught tight between her teeth. Santana licks her armpits from top to bottom, savoring the salty taste, and relishing Brittany's full body tremor even more.

Satisfied that Brittany is aroused—Santana can feel the thighs around her tighten—she moves on to her nipples. Remembering how she pinched Brittany's nipple on the bike brings a thrum of vibration through Santana's body and she gasps and sucks Brittany's nipple hard into her mouth, her free hand rolling the other between two fingers. That reckless sixty-mile an hour moment feels like it's upon them again as Brittany grabs Santana's hand and sucks her fingers into her mouth. Lips clamp down hard and once again, Santana feels herself gush: warm and wet.

Brittany moans as she draws Santana's fingers in up to the knuckle. Between that, the nipple she's clamping down on, the legs wrapped snugly around her thighs and Brittany vibrating underneath her, Santana's thinks she could come again without even being touched.

She's on fire, and she can't move fast enough as she snakes her hand from Brittany's mouth, across her chest and down her firm abs to brush through Brittany's folds. And god, she's so wet, Santana thinks about coming again just on principle. Brittany's hands still catch the headboard and as Santana sinks into her, deeper with each stroke, Brittany twists her head from side to side, lip caught so tightly in her teeth it looks like it might bleed, and starts panting, each exhalation punctuated with a word.

_God. Yes. Oh. San. Yes. PLEASE_. They're almost incoherent, but Santana doesn't need to know what Brittany's saying to understand what Brittany wants. As she slides two fingers inside, Brittany arches her back, hands gripping the headboard and she groans. Santana removes her mouth from Brittany's nipple to cover Brittany's mouth, swallowing the sound.

"Brittany, look at me." Santana pulls her mouth away and stills her hand until Brittany calms enough to open her eyes. They are inches apart, that up close intensity is back and as blue eyes meet brown, they both soften. And Santana begins.

Setting up a slow rhythm, Santana refuses to tear her gaze away from Brittany. Yes, this is uncomfortable; her vision blurs and their noses bump, and the intensity is almost too much. Santana longs to look away, but instead she steadies her lips against Brittany's, always maintaining eye contact.

As Santana speeds up, Brittany resumes her panting, each exhalation a groaned word. _I. Love. You. San._ With each stroke she dives further into the quick of Brittany, and as Santana grinds her hips into her hand, she stares into Brittany's eyes and wishes the moment would never end. But with a few flicks of her thumb against Brittany's clit, Brittany's eyes close against her will and her body begins to shake.

She swallows her own name as Brittany cries out; loudly, but with more feeling than Santana thinks she can bear.

The range of emotions that pass over Brittany's face as she comes startles Santana. She's never seen Brittany this vulnerable, and the idea that she wants Brittany in her arms for the rest of her life flashes through her mind. Before she can register panic at the thought of _the rest of her life_, Brittany is sighing into Santana's neck and circling her with both arms and murmuring kisses into her ear.

Brittany pulls Santana onto her side and curls around her, and once again, Santana feels safe in the arms of her girlfriend. She tries the word in her mind before she even thinks about voicing it and finds that it doesn't scare her as much as she thought it would. As she closes her eyes and sinks into Brittany's embrace she lets her lips and tongue form the word: _girlfriend_. It doesn't burn her mouth. In fact, she might learn to like the sound of it. She yawns, her mouth stretching all around the word, drawing out its silent syllables. Its echo lingers in her head. _Girl-friend_. She turns and relaxes into Brittany's embrace.

It doesn't take much for sleep to find them. It's late and they're spent, both physically and emotionally. So when Brittany buries her nose into Santana's neck, knees tucked tightly behind Santana's knees, one arm wrapped around her waist, their hands clenched against Santana's heart, and whispers, "I'm yours. Proudly so," Santana just smiles to herself and brings Brittany's other hand—the one that is lying under her pillow and will be all pins and needles in the morning—to her lips and presses a kiss into her palm.

"Me too, B. Me too."


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: As always, I need to thank my excellent betas for their invaluable help. Without them, I would suck.**

Chapter 3

Mrs. Pierce is right, 5 am is not kind. And when she knocks and then peaks her head inside Brittany's door with a "rise and shine," both girls jerk awake. Brittany raises her head enough to look over Santana and grumble "Mo-om" before the light blinds them both.

"Hey, I'm not the one who wanted to join the MX2011 Power-Ade Summer Motocross Tour. This is your punishment for being so good." She closes the door behind her with a sharp click. It takes Santana a moment to realize that she is naked and sweaty and still wrapped up in Brittany's arms, and another moment to panic and wonder just how much of that Mrs. Pierce saw. She glances down to see that at least the sheet is covering her goods. If she weren't so damn tired, she might dredge up the energy to give a fuck, but in her third moment of the morning, she realizes she just can't.

Brittany grumbles something about her arm being asleep and peels herself away from Santana's back. She kisses San's temple as she climbs over her and stumbles for the bathroom. Santana's backside is both cold and clammy in the wake of Britt's departure and she reaches out to grab Brittany's hand, but it is nowhere to be found. So she curls up, pulls the sheet over her head and goes back to sleep.

She wakes again, but this time it's because a damp, towel-clad and more energetic Brittany is pulling the sheet from her head and peppering her face and neck with kisses that evolve from tender little pecks to deep tongue exploration. She settles her top half across Santana's body and Santana is instantly awake. Morning breath be damned, she's not ashamed to admit that she could get used to waking up like this.

With one last tug on her lower lip Brittany says, "C'mon sleepyhead. Time to get up and take your Britt-Britt to the airport."

Brittany is way too bouncy in the morning—and her usual shameless self—and Santana wakes even more as she watches Brittany drop her towel and scamper around the room trying to put together her traveling ensemble. She swears she planned it to have a hat, although when it can't be found, she just blames Lord Tubbington and returns to Santana's side to coax her out of bed with more kissing.

Santana's accustomed to using kissing as a tool to get _into_ bed, but Brittany's charms eventually get her out of bed and dressed and the girls make their way to the Pierce's kitchen.

Mrs. Pierce hands a sleepy Santana coffee in a to-go cup along with a piece of whole grain toast covered in organic jam (would it kill Britt's mom to occasionally buy Poptarts?) because she's knows San's not a big breakfast eater. Brittany sits down to a bowl of Kashi and rice milk just like the one her sister is eating and they all chew in silence. It is finally broken when Mr. Pierce clears his throat to get everyone's attention.

"Santana. With Brittany being away this summer, we were wondering if you'd still make it a habit of coming over to visit? It won't be the same around here with both of you gone. You're practically part of the family. Especially now."

Santana looks up, startled. Brittany had warned her this was coming, but she didn't expect the invitation to come so soon. And what does he mean, _especially now_?

Mrs. Pierce takes over the invitation, "What Roger means to say is: we'd like you to come to dinner here, once a week. Say, every Monday night? —Monday's family night after all—and we'll talk about everything that's going on with you." She pauses, staring at a wide-eyed Santana. "I won't take no for an answer, Santana." There is a flash of the first-grade teacher in her smile.

Santana can only nod in response. Britt's parents are so nice, so friendly and open. She guesses it's only obvious where Brittany gets it.

"Besides, with Britt out of the house, we'll need to have at least one really good daughter around here. Even if she is only an honorary Pierce." Britt's dad smirks, deliberately not looking at any of the girls.

Ashley kicks him under the table and yells, "Hey! I'm a really good daughter. And I'm a real Pierce too, not like some people." She pouts, giving Santana her best—and not the least bit effective—glare, and she's such a Brittany in miniature that Santana can't help but tease her just a little.

"Please, I was an honorary Pierce before you were an actual one. In fact, I remember the day they brought you home all squishy and gross. I begged them to return you to whatever rock they found you under. Unfortunately for us, the rock didn't want you back." Santana shrugs indifferently (but with a sideways look to see if her words have found their mark) and takes a sip of her coffee, as if insulting eight year olds was just any other moment in her day. Actually, it kinda is.

"Me too. I begged and pleaded." Brittany takes a spoonful of cereal to mask her grin, but she can't hold it in for long and ends up spraying milk across the table. Santana chokes on her coffee and Mr. Pierce spills his bowl, and soon they are all laughing, even pouty Ashley, and Mrs. Pierce is cleaning off the table and everyone is heading for the door.

Mrs. Pierce catches Santana by her arm before she and Brittany exit. "San, I hope you know that we consider you part of this family now. Not that you haven't always been, but… well, things are different now."

Santana gulps and looks to Brittany, whose eyes are sparkling. She has a huge grin on her face as if to say, _See, I told you so_.

Santana thinks that, were she to open her mouth to speak, her toast might make a return visit, so she tightens her jaw and just gives Mrs. P a silent nod.

_Things are different now_.

Mrs. Pierce continues on as if Santana didn't just make the second most difficult admission of her life, "So, we think that now that you're going to be part of the family, and coming over for family night dinners, and have become such a grown up young lady, that you should start calling us by our names. No more Mr. and Mrs. P, okay? It's just Roger and Susan now, Susie to you. Okay, Santana?" She turns Santana to face her, eyes searching Santana's.

"Okay. Susie." The words come out strange sounding, garbled on her tongue. But Mrs. P—no, _Susie_—is hugging her and Santana finds Brittany's eyes over her shoulder and they are practically twinkling, and her smile is so big that Santana can't help but return it. She relaxes in Susie's embrace. Maybe this summer isn't gonna be so bad after all.

Moments later, everyone is piling into Jerry Garcia, Susie's ancient VW Bus. Santana knows that Britt's Grandpa Van Duyssen bought the van new exactly nine months before Susie was born (and exactly three months before he married Grandma Van Duyssen) and it's been in the family ever since. All the girls have gotten over the embarrassment of riding in the thing—even though, thanks to Brittany's second unsuccessful bid to get her license, it currently sports different colored doors and spots of primer. Santana is sure that there is something more than just Roger's skill as a mechanic keeping the thing running. Something like German black magic. Or hashish residue.

Brittany and Santana take their usual seats on the rear bench, which folds into a bed—the van is good for at least one thing (as Britt's grandparents also discovered)—and Ashley buckles herself into the seat behind her mom and dad. They all look at each other, take a synchronized deep breath, and then they begin the ritual:

_Camper van, camper van,_

_Does whatever a camper can._

_Spins a web, any size, _

_Catches thieves just like flies._

_Look out! Here comes the Camper Van._

Brittany's belting out the tune and in that moment Santana wants nothing more than to kiss her, to silence her song—not because it's a horrible song, or because Britt's not a good singer—but because she can't imagine a more perfect moment with Brittany at her side. Her lips just need to feel Brittany on them.

She curls into Britt's side and looks up at her singing and laughing, and whispers into Brittany's ear. "I really want to kiss you right now." It works. Brittany stops singing and smiles oh-so seductively back at her.

"So do it. Kiss me."

Santana is flabbergasted. She glances around. The rest of the Pierces are singing the second verse and Roger is cranking the engine. No one is paying any attention to the girls in the back, but Santana's not quite that brave yet. She shakes her head, burying it in Brittany's neck.

Jerry Garcia finally sputters to life, and after a few good revs to warm up the engine Roger turns around and asks if everybody's ready.

Santana can't imagine being less ready for anything. And what's she supposed to be ready for? Summer?

For Brittany to be her _girlfriend_?

For things to be '_different now' _with the Pierces?

She wants to leap out the car door and drag Brittany with her back to the safety of the bedroom. She's changing her mind. She's _not_ ready. And above all, she doesn't want Brittany to leave.

The sun is peaking over the horizon as the van trundles away from the curb. Ready or not, they are on their way to the airport.

* * *

><p>Santana falls asleep against Brittany's side just minutes after they get on I-75 and doesn't wake until they are pulling up in front of the Columbus airport. She's pretty sure Brittany hummed the camper van theme song the entire way because it's resonating in both her brain and her body and she knows it will be weeks before she can get that stupid song out of her head.<p>

As she walks with the Pierces toward the entrance, Santana realizes that tears are already starting to prickle. She wipes them surreptitiously on her sleeve while pointedly falling behind the others so they can't see her face. Ahead of her she watches four blond ponytails bouncing as they walk with purpose into the airport. She knows that she really isn't part of this family the way wishes; she's never going to be pale, blue-eyed or blonde. She's never going to have the same sunny, carefree disposition. She will never look at life as a fun adventure to be relished like they do.

Even among this family, who loves and accepts her, she is an outsider.

Brittany checks her gear bag at the luggage counter. It's so heavy it takes two of them to lift in onto the conveyor belt and the agent tells them it's going to cost extra.

"Last chance to go with me, San," Brittany whispers, her breath a soft caress against Santana's ear. "I know you'd fit in my bag and I think you probably weigh less than all the clothes I'm taking."

Santana grins at her and Brittany continues, "I'd rather go naked all summer and come home to you every night in my bed anyway." Santana looks around to see if anyone heard, but Roger is pulling out his credit card for the counter agent, and Susie is reprimanding a pouty Ashley for twirling on the stanchions that divide the check-in rows.

Santana blushes and shakes her head. "I think I'd rather stay here and know you were clothed all summer. I'm already jealous of all the attention you're going to be getting; think how 'Lima Heights' I'd get if I saw you riding your bike around naked in front of millions of screaming fans."

Brittany snorts loudly, probably at the vision of herself naked, covered in mud astride her bike and Santana can't help but join in. They draw first Ashley's, then Roger and Susie's attention, and then finally the curious gazes of those around them as Brittany gasps and cackles and makes a "boobies bouncing on her bike" motion with her hands. Santana can't breathe, she's laughing so hard. She's rolling her eyes back and sucking in much needed air, when it hits her: this is the last time she's going to see Brittany. She'd let herself forget for a moment—a moment that felt so fucking good, when she was laughing with Brittany—that this was it.

In that instant Santana stops laughing because there are tears in her eyes and Brittany is leaving and there is nothing at all laughable about the way she feels about that. Brittany strokes her cheek with the pad of her thumb, and though calloused, it feels so soft against her skin that Santana's tears come harder and all she wants is to run away from this line, the airport, from Ohio. She wants to grab Brittany's hand and sprint harder than Coach Sylvester ever made them run at practice. She needs to escape, preferably with Brittany at her side. But Roger and Susie are looking at her and the douchebag in line behind them is clearing his throat, and Brittany's got a plane to catch.

She pushes Britt's hand away and chuckles. She shrugs her tears off as hysterical laughter. Brittany has that affect on people after all. No big deal, right? But she needs to be on the move. She can't stand still any longer with these feelings erupting out of her.

Bag checked, they all head up the escalators to security. Ashley tries to run up the down escalators, furiously climbing stairs while staying in place, and pissing a lot of people off. It prompts a chuckle from Roger and a stern eye from Susie and so it goes unnoticed when Brittany grabs Santana's hand and doesn't let go the whole ride up. Santana's not sure which hurts more, the grip Brittany has on her hand, or the effort it's taking for her not to start sobbing. Her ears pop like she's ascending Everest and her clenched jaw is giving her a headache. Her heart is racing and her stomach begins to roil.

Suddenly, Santana doesn't feel so good.

The last thing that she wants is to say good-bye, so Santana's thankful there's a long line at security. It will give her more time to get herself under control. No one knows what to say as they stand in line surrounded by people. Santana and Brittany stare at each other awkwardly as Santana tries to take subtle, calming breathes, which don't seem to be working. Her skin feels like it's sizzling and she may actually be a little bit lightheaded. Finally, Susie breaks the tension as she fusses with Brittany's outfit and hair. She asks if Brittany's packed everything and throws an arm around her shoulders. Roger kisses Brittany's temple and makes her promise to tell him everything about the bikes and the courses and the moves that she learns.

Both parents seem excited for Brittany and as they hug her and wish her well, Santana is jealous. She wants to be the one brushing Brittany's hair over her shoulder and looping their arms as they inch forward in line. But these are not the halls of McKinley High and she's sure that linking pinkies is frowned upon.

Santana wants to throw her arms around Brittany, dip her back and kiss her goodbye. Hard. Old school, going-off-to-war, romance style. But they are two girls. In Ohio. And they are in public, and surrounded way too closely by prying eyes.

She suddenly realizes that she has _no idea_ what she's doing.

There are so many things Santana has yet to say and no time left to say it. But this is it; a fire has been lit under her butt, and the thing she has wanted to do has been put under a time crunch.

Number one: _Woo Brittany_. Did last night count as wooing? Santana's not sure.

Number two: _Ask Brittany to be her girlfriend?_ Santana's pretty sure last night didn't count for that as she never said the word out loud.

Number three: _Work on building a relationship_. Santana guesses that will have to come with time. They have all summer to think about that.

She's beginning to regret coming to the airport. Things would have been so much easier, so much safer for her heart if she'd said her good-byes last night in Brittany's room. Or even this morning in the driveway, with only the sleepy Pierces as their witnesses. But now she is in an international airport security line with hundreds of people, all cranky and in a hurry, and she has to tell the love of her life good–bye for the next three months.

And she has one very important question to ask Brittany before she goes.

She feels another panic attack coming on.

Santana feels the tears starting up again. She _so_ didn't want this. She's a wreck and she should have known this was a bad idea, but how could she not see Britt off at the airport? How could she not take advantage of every last minute with her?

As if she's psychic, Brittany senses that Santana's starting to freak out and reaches out to her. Bypassing her pinky, Brittany grabs Santana's hand in hers and places her other hand over Santana's heart, just left of her center, a finger's breadth from her breast. Outstretched like that, Brittany's hand practically covers Santana's chest. It is warm and soft and not at all sexual, yet it somehow transports Santana back to the comfort of the bedroom.

"Look at me. Look into my eyes, Santana. Now take a deep breath." Santana does both and finds herself relaxing more quickly than she thought possible. Those eyes are hypnotic. Their blue is so clear and Brittany is smiling at her and her smile always reaches her eyes and she's taking a deep breath to prompt Santana to take one too. Soon they are both breathing deeply and so fixated on each other's face that the tension just drains away until they are smiling at one another and Brittany pulls her close and grabs both of her hands.

Santana looks around. They are closer to the checkpoint now and people, most of them strangers, surround them closely on all sides. Santana's more nervous than that time she had a solo at sectionals. That was scary, but this? This is heart-stopping. She glances at several faces but none of the early morning travelers seem at all interested in two teen-aged girls holding hands in the security line.

Santana takes another deep breath. This is okay. She can do this. She _has_ to do this.

"Is there anything you want to tell me before I leave, Santana?"

This is it. This is her chance. She can't blow this.

"Ummm… Are you sure you packed your… chest protector? It's really important that you have that. You gotta protect your heart."

"Yeah, I packed it." Brittany inches closer to Santana and Santana scans the crowd again, wary. Brittany pulls their clasped hands together and towards her chest and draws Santana's eyes back to hers. Santana gulps, her body frozen in place, afraid to get any closer. She stares, so wide-eyed at Brittany, she can't even blink.

"Is that all you wanted to ask me?"

"Ummmm… Did you make sure to pack your phone ? And the charger? I gots to be hearing from you every day, you know. That's important."

Brittany drops their hands, pulls her phone from her pocket and waves it front of Santana. She presses a few icons and then pulls Santana into her side; she holds her so tight that Santana feels like their ribs are cogs, each bone fitting precisely into the soft space between two others. Brittany holds the phone out in front of them and turns to look at it.

"Smile, baby." The flash captures a look of half-panic on Santana's face as she turns and sees the Pierces, who are watching the impromptu photo session with rather knowing looks. Several nearby travelers glance their direction as the flash goes off and smile at the two girls taking pictures of themselves. Santana's heart stutters as she locks eyes with a cranky-looking old lady who is glaring at them.

"I wish I would have gotten a picture of you last night as you lay below me," Brittany whispers in her ear. "_That_ would have helped me get through the summer."

Santana blushes and lowers her eyes, embarrassed, as Brittany announces, "one more" and the camera flashes just as Santana looks up at Brittany and Brittany turns to look at the camera, her smile effusive, her eyes twinkling with mirth, and Santana knows that _that_ photo is the one. That photo just captured the essence of the two girls: one teasing and gleeful, the other blushing and scared, but in love.

Brittany, laughing, snaps one more "for luck," but Santana can't take her eyes off of her and, like a magnet, Britt can feel those eyes and is drawn to them. She turns to look down at Santana, stuffing her phone in her pocket and throwing her other arm around her shoulder. Santana finds herself in Brittany's embrace and captive in Brittany's gaze and the entire airport—the Pierces next to them, and all those other people behind them in the security line—melts away and it's just them, in each other's arms.

Brittany's eyes flicker from Santana's eyes to her lips, her tongue darting out to wet her own lips, and Santana knows it's coming before Brittany even begins to lean in. But she finds herself stretching up, standing on her tiptoes and leaning in too, and her eyes are fixed on Britt's lips and all that matters to her is that they touch each other's lips and she realizes she couldn't stop herself from this even if she tried.

And with a frightening realization, she discovers she doesn't want to stop.

And she doesn't care who knows it.

They lean into each other and oh god, they're kissing, and it feels so good. Brittany's lips are delicate against hers, but firm, and Santana finds herself pushing into those lips with her own. She doesn't want to let go of Brittany or stop kissing her or even breathe. This fucking moment is all that matters.

They only break apart because Susie clears her throat in the most obvious way imaginable and when they look, she indicates the huge space that's cleared in front of them and the crowd of staring, anxious travelers behind them.

They scoot up in the line, but Brittany doesn't let go of Santana's hand and when they are surrounded by people again—somewhat sheltered by Roger, who is now holding Ashley, and Susie, the both of them looking conspicuously nonchalant and interested in everything around them but what's going on right under their noses—she leans back down to capture Santana's lips again. She has a wicked grin on her face and this time it's quicker, but dirtier, than the last. She swipes just the tip of her tongue against Santana's lower lip before taking it between her teeth. Santana's pretty sure she saw a crusty look on that same old lady and loses her nerve after just a few seconds, pulling away and tucking her face into Brittany's neck.

"San?" Brittany's lips against her cheek muffle her name as it finds its way to her ear.

She knows what Brittany needs to hear and it isn't about what she packed or when she'll call. Brittany needs something concrete to pin her summer on. She needs a sure thing, and god knows Santana's never been a sure thing in matters of the heart.

But she knows the time to start being sure is right now. She can't take her time with this thing she's been fantasizing about; it's do or die, step up to the plate, get off her ass, quit pussy-footing around, get her girl, yadda yadda yadda, time.

It's time to put her plan into action.

She glances around, taking in all the surrounding faces, making sure none are looking her way.

She steps back, clutching Brittany's hands tight between hers and staring hard at her own shoes.

She steals herself. Her heart has never beat so fast.

She inhales right down to her toes.

"Doyoumaybewannabemygirlfriend?" she mumbles so quietly she can barely hear herself.

She looks up and finds Brittany's eyes and Brittany's grinning at her, and thank god, they've always understood each other nonverbally, because she is nodding and hugging Santana so hard she lifts her off the ground. And Santana lets her because she's pretty sure she was about to collapse anyway. She exhales, emptying her ragged lungs; she's just so relieved. It's done. _And_ she said yes.

Not trusting herself to keep it together, Santana melts against Brittany's shoulder. She can feel Brittany bouncing up and down and it seems impossible but she's squeezing Santana even tighter in her arms as she sets her back down. They hold each other close for what feels like the most important minute of Santana's life.

But then it fades.

Despite Brittany's obvious excitement, Santana knows it wasn't good enough; she needs to say it out loud so everyone, and especially Brittany, can hear it. She steals herself a second time; she inhales, lifts her heard, catches Brittany's eyes, clears her throat and says with conviction, "Brittany Susan Pierce, I want you to be my girlfriend."

_Wow, that was so much easier the second time._

Brittany squeals and this time her feet actually leave the airport floor as she jumps in the air. Santana has to brace her hands against her shoulders to bring her back down. Brittany vibrates in place and her whole body ripples as Santana sandwiches Brittany's face in her hands. It's like trying to contain an electric current, but she really needs Britt to focus right now.

"I'll be waiting for you, okay? I'll be here, working on me, so that when you get back we can make a fresh start together. As a couple, okay?"

Brittany nods and grips Santana's hands still on her cheeks and resumes her bouncing in place. Then she is hugging Santana again and then she is hugging Susie and Roger and then Santana again, and she's exuding such joy that it's contagious. Everyone is smiling and hugging each other and as they move further up the line, Brittany can't help but keep coming back to Santana and catching her in a viselike hug or placing a quick peck on her lips, her cheek, her temple, her hand.

Santana wonders how she thought she could ever say no to this girl.

It's finally Britt's turn and just before she steps to the front of the line, she catches everyone with one last hug and kiss, lingering longest with her cheek pressed against Santana's.

"Promise me you'll call the second you get there, okay?" Santana whispers.

"I promise."

"And promise me, you'll call me every night to tell me about your day."

"I promise."

"And promise me you'll miss me, cuz I'm really gonna miss you, B."

Brittany pulls back and places a sweet, loving kiss on Santana's lips. "I totally promise I'll miss you San. I'm gonna miss my _girlfriend_ like every minute of every day."

Santana nods, those damn tears back in her eyes, as she pushes Brittany away and toward the security agent.

Santana's not sure if the TSA agent looks at her with a snicker, but she's not sure that she even cares.

Brittany hands the agent her ticket and ID and he waves her through the gate. Santana and the Pierces step aside where they can still see Brittany as she takes off her shoes and places them and her carry-on in a plastic bin. Santana feels the tears spill down her cheeks. This is it. This is the last time she's going to see Brittany all summer.

"Brittany!" She calls out to her and Brittany turns, expectant, eyebrows raised in a question. Santana inhales, but the words don't come. But Brittany just smiles and waves to her mom and dad, and points to Santana and says, "Take good care of her for me."

Susie embraces Santana from behind, bending to lay her chin upon Santana's shoulder, and says, "we will," while Roger's large hand finds her other shoulder and squeezes.

"We promise."

Brittany gives them a thumbs-up and turns and walks toward the scanner. She's almost out of sight; Santana can't let her go like this. She calls out again.

"Brittany!" It comes out louder than she expected and a few other people beside Brittany turn to look at her, but she doesn't care. This has to be said. Yelled, even.

"I love you."

And Susie's strong arms are holding her and Roger's hand is gripping her shoulder and even Ashley reaches down to brush her hand against Santana's hair and the tears are falling hard now. She's not ashamed as Brittany smiles the biggest smile she's ever seen and points first to her eye, then makes a cuddle gesture, her hands crossing her chest and squeezing, then points to Santana. _I love you_.

It's big and she's obvious and several people see her and look at her and then at Santana. Santana knows that they know what this means and she finds that she just doesn't give a fuck.

"I LOVE YOU TOO, B!" She yells, even louder than before and then she's laughing and she's crying and the Pierces are gripping her even tighter. Brittany is so happy as she's going through the scanner that the guard who's waving the wand over her is grinning too. Then she's being waved through and she turns and blows them all a kiss. Santana grabs the kiss and places it on her lips to savor; it almost feels real. Brittany turns and steps into the crowd, and for a moment Santana can see her blonde head bob amongst several others, but then it too disappears and Brittany is gone.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: There will be a special place reserved in Heaven for my betas; they are angels. Thanks to jeune fille en fleur, themostrandomfandom, and especially to grownupspashley, who helped me find Brittany's voice. **

* * *

><p>Chapter 4:<p>

"I haven't seen you since Easter. And before that it was Christmas. That's too long, Santana, too long to go between visits to your dear old dad."

Santana barely remembers leaving the airport. Susie's arm may have been around her shoulders and her feet may have carried her out the door and across the parking lot, but the one thing she is sure of is that her eyes were too blurred with hot tears to see any of it. And she hardly remembers finding herself, finally cried out, pulling up in front of her father's downtown loft in the refurbished warehouse district, the concrete and glass building only a few stories high but stark and imposing.

She thinks she remembers Susie telling her, "take your time, Santana. Ashley and I are going to the mall and Roger needs to pick up parts from the Harley distributor. He gossips worse than a teen-aged girl when he's with his buddies, so no need to rush. Enjoy your visit with your father."

Santana's pretty sure she remembers to fix her face before she presses the buzzer. She knows it's a mess: the lingering horror over kissing Brittany in the airport is still reflected in her red, swollen eyes; the ecstasy of kissing Brittany in the airport is still etched into her swollen, pink cheeks and permanent, wide-lipped grin. A quick swipe of mascara, eyeliner and lipstick doesn't make a dent in the turbulent feelings that swirl under her façade, but it will have to do. She needs to look her best for this meeting.

Wrung dry and woozy from emotional overload when her father greets her, sweeping her right off of her feet in a huge hug and squeezing her in his strong arms, she melts. The anger and animosity that she keeps just under the surface when he's around slips away.

Now, seated across the table from her father, Santana is one part weary, one part wary, and one part giddy. She'd arranged this visit with her father back when the idea didn't seem so fucking awkward, but now she wishes she'd never agreed to do it. Still, here they sit, nursing their cappuccinos and egg white omelets and making small talk. It's the only kind of talk Santana has with her dad any more, but today it's actually kinda nice.

The high of the airport sill hasn't left her completely and as her father smiles at her—really _smiles_ at her for the first time in a long time—she contemplates telling him about herself: coming out to him.

"I'm really happy to see you too, Daddy. It has been too long, and there's… something I need to tell you." She steels herself, looking first at her plate and then up at her father's dark, stern face. She inhales, preparing the words, but he interrupts her before she can start.

"Santana, I know. And it's something we need to talk about. It's been weighing on my mind a lot lately."

Santana almost chokes on air (air!) she's so surprised. How could he know?

"Santana, I love you very much, but I haven't been a good father. Sure, I've given you clothes, braces, a car, plastic surgery. But I haven't given you the most important thing a father can give his child: independence. And that's going to start now."

Santana stares at her father, perplexed. Would he no longer support her because she's gay?

"You see, even though I haven't been in your life much lately, I still know some things about you, my dear."

_Oh god, here it comes_. Santana braces herself, arms tightening to her sides, legs clamping together. Would she need to flee? Where would she go? Would Brittany's parents be able to come to her rescue?

"Santana, I know that you are a…"

Santana holds her breath.

"…troublemaker, for lack of a more appropriate term." Santana deflates with relief.

"I know you've caused a lot of trouble at school lately, as well as at home. I even know you quit the Cheerios and that your grades have gone down this last semester. And I think I know why."

Again, Santana prepares to hear the worst, but she tells herself she'll wait for the words before she runs from the loft.

"Your mother tells me you've been 'bitchy' a lot lately. She says you have a bad attitude and way more anger than any girl your age should have. You're acting out and have even lost some of your friends."

Santana crosses her arms and looks away, finding the art on the wall fascinating. _So what if he's a little bit right. She's got Brittany and that's all she needs. Well, she'll have Brittany at the end of the summer at least. _

"Santana." He reaches across the table to touch her arm, but she pushes back in her chair, out of his reach, and turns her head to stare out the window, deliberately avoiding his gaze. He sighs. "I need you to tell me what's going on with you. Because this Santana who's sitting in front of me, not meeting my eyes, is not the Santana that I know."

Santana feels that animosity boiling up inside her again, that anger that she thought she'd lost when her father hugged her. She wants to leap to her feet and scream at him. To yell at him that how would he know anything about her when he's never around? He hasn't been around for years.

But she doesn't yell. She doesn't storm out in a Berry-inspired huff; she doesn't even give him one of her patented glares. She merely locks her jaw and turns her scrutiny onto her cuticles. _Yep, those really need work_.

She definitely does not come out to him.

"Santana, tell me the truth. Is it a boy?"

Santana can't help the snort that escapes her. She shakes her head 'no', too afraid that speaking will result in inappropriate snickering.

"You're not pregnant, are you?"

Oh god, the giggles are bubbling up inside her and all she can do is shake her head harder as she tries to keep it together.

"Okay then, is it drugs?" He looks at her with such parental concern that she's not sure if she should let the laughter explode out of her or start sobbing instead.

"God, Dad, NO! It's not drugs or a boy, and I'm definitely _not_ pregnant, okay? Geez! I'm just a bitch. Always have been, always will be. People just can't handle that I guess." She shrugs and finally meets his eyes,

Her father eyes her back, not sure if she's telling the truth or not, but in the end he has no choice but to believe her.

"Well, there is definitely something going on. I know for a fact that you haven't always been a bitch. You may have inherited your mother's temper, but you were never a mean child, or a sullen one. So tell me, what's going on with you?"

Santana stalls by taking a sip of her cappuccino. She could tell him that she's gay, he's begging her to. She could tell him about loving Brittany and kissing her in the airport. She could tell him how amazing it is that they are a couple now after all they've been through. She could tell him about the Pierces accepting her, but how she's still so scared every single day what other people will think. She could confide in him and feel this huge weight that she's been carrying around plummet from her chest. The problem is that the relief she feels knowing that her father _doesn't_ know about her is equally overwhelming. For one of the first times of her life, Santana Lopez honestly doesn't know what to say.

She inhales. "Daddy, I'm… I'm…

It's so hard to breathe with her every muscle locked in place, yet her heart and lungs are pounding as though she's just finished a Sue Sylvester workout.

"…fine," she exhales. "I'm okay. There's nothing going on." She's not sure if she hates herself in that moment, but the churning in her gut that seems to have nothing to do with the breakfast that she's not eating is settling so she listens to that instead of her head, which is still echoing the words, _I'm gay, I'm gay, I'm gay_.

"Santana." He's dubious and not afraid to let her know he can see right through her.

"Dad, you just don't understand what it's like to be seventeen and a girl. Popularity is everything, and it's harder now that I'm not a cheerleader. I didn't win Prom Queen and Glee didn't even place at Nationals. It's like no one even likes me any more." She's sure she knows why, but no way is she telling him now.

"My street cred's just kinda in the gutter right now and it's made me more… tense, I guess. It's no big deal. I'm sure I'll be right back on top once senior year starts." She's so sure she won't be. There will be a whole slew of new problems to deal with if she's going to be Brittany's out and proud girlfriend. Still, that's months away, so she tries not to think about that right now.

"So all this bad behavior, this mouthing off and quitting things, your bad grades? It's all just about popularity. Why don't I think you're telling me the truth?"

Santana tries a different tack. If age or gender won't cut it, she knows how to reach him. "You know how it is. I'm the only Hispanic in a mostly white school, and being from the 'hood? It's important to represent, ya know? I gots me an image to protect." She crosses her arms and cocks her head at him, less afraid to show her dad her Lima Heights attitude than to wave a rainbow flag in his face.

"Santana, don't talk that way. That's not how I raised you. Even if I only see you on special occasions, you're a Lopez and the Lopezes don't speak that way. We don't allow such petty things as popularity or what neighborhood we come from to control our lives. We are Cuban. We struggle and we rise above adversity, it's who we are. I thought I'd taught you that."

"What would you know?" Santana mumbles under her breath.

"Santana, my father came to this country when he was twelve years old in a rubber raft with nothing but the clothes on his back and his little sister in his arms; his hand clamped over her mouth so she wouldn't cry as they snuck away from the shore."

Santana rolls her eyes as she mentally braces herself to hear the story for the thousandth time. Still, she makes sure her father doesn't see her. There would be hell to pay, if he caught her disrespecting her grandfather.

"When he got here he had nothing. He didn't speak English. He took the only job that brown, Spanish-speaking boys could get: he picked fruit. And he went to school and he learned English and he saved up every penny he could so he could eventually own the store that sells the fruit. He made a name for himself and he made a home for himself and his wife and children. And do you know what he made me do when I was twelve years old? He made me get a job picking fruit."

"That sucks," Santana says.

"Language, Santana. Do you know why my father made me pick fruit? Because that is what brown, Spanish-speaking sons of immigrants do. It was not because we needed the money, but because he said I needed to learn what it meant to work, to earn a decent wage for a decent day's work. I saved my money and I went to school and became a doctor and now I heal the fruit pickers. I am a credit to our heritage. I struggled and I rose above. Now it's your turn to do the same."

Santana Lopez, picking fruit—is he insane? She pales. What about her summer plans? What about her reputation? What about her manicure?

"Now I'm not going to make you pick fruit" (Santana surreptitiously releases a thankful sigh) "but I've come to the conclusion that I have spoiled you rotten. You are almost eighteen, this is your last year in school, and it's time you started behaving like an adult. I've arranged a job for you this summer."

Although she's ecstatic that is doesn't involve fruit, Santana can't help worrying about the direction this conversation is taking. Maybe she should have come out to him after all. They could have screamed at each other and then she could have run out in tears, without the threat of a summer job. Like all their other visits.

"Two jobs, actually. You get to choose, which is something I never got to do. You can either move to Columbus, stay with me for the summer and work for Dawn—the boutique is starting to take off and she could use another hand—or, you can stay in Lima with you mother and work at a colleague of mine's office."

Santana clamps her lip with her teeth as her eyes skirt her father's face. Surely, he's not serious. Her? Working? Ugh, it's like all her worst nightmares for this summer are coming back to haunt her; first Brittany leaving, now this.

Santana grimaces at her prospects. She abhors her stepmother, Dawn, and the thought of spending even an hour alone with her makes Santana's eyeballs shiver. Only ten years her senior, Dawn is every bit the plastic, gold-digging whore Santana's mother always said she was. Her father is baiting her; the boutique would be her dream job otherwise, but it comes at such a cost. And she knows that living with her father for the summer doesn't mean she'll see any more of him. He's just so busy.

"What would I be doing at your colleague's office?" she asks, her eyes paying too much attention to her plate. She doesn't like how her voice sounds. Small, and like she still cares way too much about what her father thinks.

"Some filing and answering the phones, mostly. Occasionally dealing with her clients. Her practice caters to a very specific clientele. You'd need to be on your best behavior."

"And what if I don't like either of those options?" Santana asks, playing with her spoon and refusing to meet her father's dark eyes. She knows before she even opens her mouth that it isn't really an option, but she wouldn't be Santana Lopez if she didn't at least question his authority.

His answer is smug, which is not at all what Santana expects. "You are welcome to get a job at McDonalds or the Lima Quick-E Mart, but I daresay neither will pay as well, nor be as interesting as the options I've selected for you. But hear me now, Santana; you _will_ be working this summer. I've spoken to your mother and she is on board. I'll be discontinuing your allowance until school starts and putting that money into your college fund instead. I think earning a decent wage for a good day's work will also have an outstanding effect on your bad attitude."

Santana sighs. It figures that her father would have the ruination of her summer all mapped out and that her mother would go along with it. Fifteen years they were married and they couldn't agree on a thing, but now they are conspiring to create the worst summer of her life.

"Guess I don't have much of a choice, do I?" Santana finally mumbles.

"Life is full of choices. You've been given options and you are still free to go out and look for others. I certainly didn't get options at your age. Life is not out to get you, Santana. Life is yours for the taking. The time has come for you to start seizing what you want for your life.

Santana finds her eyes starting to fill, and her nose beginning to run. She's been pushing herself to seize what she wants in life—with Brittany—and the thought of having to do it in another arena so soon is a little overwhelming. Nevertheless, she doesn't want her father to see her like this.

Her father takes her hand and holds it in both of his on the table. "This is not a punishment, my darling. This is a gift. Lots of people would love to have either one of these jobs."

Santana knows he doesn't get why she is crying, and she kinda doesn't even know herself, but as she looks at her small hand in his, she suddenly feels like a little girl again. She remembers thinking that her daddy was the greatest daddy in the world. He's a doctor so he could always fix her cuts and bruises and he would always be strong enough to protect her. The realization that that isn't the case still reverberates in her soul. Sure, she learned it at twelve when he walked out of her home, and essentially her life, but she feels like she's still learning it now. It hurts just as much now as it did then.

"It's good money and it will be a good experience for you, Querida. I promise that my friend will take good care of you. She's a little bit like you—smart as a whip, with a bit of a mouth. You will enjoy your time there. And if you don't, at least you will enjoy the money you make. Wipe your eyes now," he says, handing her a napkin. "There's no crying in baseball."

She tries to laugh at his old joke. And he smiles at her attempt. And she feels like a little girl again, happy to be having breakfast with her daddy on a summer's day. She wants so badly to savor the moment, but she knows that she's not a little girl any more. She's neither young nor innocent, and she's still harboring a secret that she's pretty sure her dad will disown her for when it's revealed. She wants to scream at him: _Look at me. Love me_! She wants to scream at him: _I hate you for leaving me_! She wants to scream at him—no, she wants to whisper: _I'm gay_.

She wants to hate him, but she can't.

More than anything, Santana wants her daddy to hold her in his strong arms like when she was a little girl. But he doesn't, so she keeps that little girl locked up safe just inside herself. She realizes with a pang that that little girl won't ever really be able to come out again, because the little girl inside her can't afford to ever lose her daddy.

The tears keep spilling, but she wipes them as she chuckles at her father. He takes a drink of his cappuccino and purposely leaves a huge foam mustache on his upper lip, knowing that it's something that's been making her giggle since she was a toddler.

She nods at him as she wipes her eyes and murmurs "okay." Then she repeats herself, this time with conviction, knowing it means more to her that it does to her father, "okay."

She inhales, tears stopping. She can do this. She did it for Brittany; she can do it for her dad. She can lock that little girl away. She can be a grown up.

"By the way, you've got something on your lip." She says, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with the tip of her napkin.

Her father mimics her, dabbing at the corner of his mouth not even touching the foam. They've played this game so many times that it's rote to her.

"Did I get it?"

She dabs at the other corner, continuing the game and he follows suit, wiping all around his mouth and never touching the foam. Finally, she puts a spoon in front of his face so that he can see his reflection.

"But that is just my mustache. I am Cuban, we all must have mustaches."

She takes an extra large sip of her cappuccino, purposely covering her own lip in foam and says, "I'm Cuban too, Daddy. Just like you."

He smiles as her, and his smile is warm and it pierces her heart a little more than it should and once again, Santana blames Brittany for taking her chest protector with her on tour. She wonders if this adversity is something she can ever rise above.

* * *

><p>As many times as the Pierces have driven Santana to her house in Lima Heights Adjacent, she still gets a nervous twitch behind her eye as the camper van turns into her neighborhood. She's alert even in the daytime, knowing which corners to watch, and which corners to avoid looking at at all costs. As they turn onto her street, she notices that the porch light on her house is unlit. This means that her mother did not come home last night, which means…<p>

The camper van pulls up in front of Santana's house and parks and sure enough… the fence has been tagged. Again.

Santana groans and tries to get out of the van quickly, hoping that the Pierces will be on their way before they notice the fence. But no such luck. Roger meets her on the sidewalk as she exits the back of the van and jerks his head toward the graffiti.

"That new?" He asks, as he gives Santana an awkward hug.

She nods, eyes downcast.

"Need me to bring some paint by later on?"

Santana's hugging Susie goodbye and she shakes her head, eyes still looking anywhere but at the way-too-nice Pierces.

"Nah, we keep a gallon of white paint in the garage just for this. I'll work on it later. Or maybe I can get my cousin Javier to do it. He owes me one and it was probably his boys that tagged it in the first place." In truth, she hasn't seen Javier in six months and thinks he might be back in Juvie, but she knows that Roger will feel better if he thinks Santana has help. If she doesn't say something, she knows he'll show up later (in those stupid, white, painting pants) to do it himself, and she sure as hell doesn't want that. She's gotten pretty good at re-painting the fence anyway.

"Your mom gonna be home tonight?" Roger asks casually, as he works his eyes around the neighborhood. "You could stay at our house again, if you need to. I don't like the idea of you home alone at night."

"Oh yeah, she'll be home for sure. She probably can't wait to grill me about my visit with my dad. I'll text her as soon as I get inside."

"Well, okay then. But you call us if you need anything, okay? Anything." He catches her shoulder and looks her hard right in the eye and she realizes, with sudden clarity, that this man is her girlfriend's father, which is kinda like being her father-in-law, which is kinda like him being _her_ father too. And it's both comforting and frightening to think of Britt's parents in the same vein as her parents. They are nothing alike. Santana looks away, his blue eyes too familiar and his stare too intense to maintain in the face of this sudden knowledge. She can only nod at his offer.

"So, thanks for the ride and stuff. I'm really glad I got to see Britt off at the airport and it was, um… good… to see my dad too." Santana shuffles her feet like she's Finn on a date, and can't figure out what it is about today that's left her without the ability to speak in coherent sentences.

"And you know, thanks for everything else, too."

Susie gives Santana an extra squeeze and whispers, "I was so proud of you today" in her ear, and Roger ruffles her hair like she's seven and she knows it basically means the same thing. Even Ashley gives her a 'thumbs up' from inside the van, she, too, cheering Santana on. Santana gives the spray-painted fence one last glare and turns to walk toward her front door. The sooner she can get into the house, the sooner the Pierces will leave and the sooner she can take care of its repair.

Susie calls to Santana before she's halfway up the walk, "Don't forget dinner, San; Monday night, 6:30 sharp. I know it's your first day of work so we'll have lots to talk about." Santana grimaces at the reminder of her new job, but nods and turns to make her way toward the house.

"And tell Brittany to call us too, when you talk to her tonight." Santana nods yet again, blushing that Susie knows them so well, and reaches to unlock the door before turning to watch Brittany's wonderful, loving, slightly daffy family pile into their VW camper van, sing and then pull away.

* * *

><p>Santana's mother's "grilling" turns into half a dozen texts supporting Santana's father's decision for her to get a job, indicating that she won't be home that night, and reminding Santana to leave the security light on over the porch so the fence doesn't get tagged. She does not ask about the airport.<p>

Painting over the graffiti only takes an hour. As she paints, she thinks about what her father said about having options and seizing what she wants out of life. Sure, a rundown old house in the bad part of town is not where she thought she'd end up, but there's no reason that she can't make the best of it. And there's no reason that she has to stay here forever. She can make the choice to better herself and then get out of Lima. And she can make the choice to take Brittany with her.

She vows then and there to do just that: make the best of her situation, make better choices, get herself and Brittany out of Lima, and into someplace where they can be together; safe, happy and in love.

With an uncharacteristic smile on her face, she pulls a few weeds from between the slabs of concrete in the driveway, and then decides to tackle the weeds in the flowerbeds too. Santana can't remember the last time they held flowers. Maybe when her grandmother lived there? But her grandmother's been gone for four years, almost as long as her father, and since her neglectful mother took over the house and the neighborhood's continued its decline, well, let's just say the house has seen better days.

After her afternoon of yard work (her mother will be shocked, if she notices), Santana showers, microwaves a personal pizza for dinner, and settles in front of the television with the Real Housewives, a shoplifted Corona, and her phone at her side to wait for Brittany's call.

She's nodding off on the couch when her phone rings at the exact second that the digital clock clicks over to ten pm and Santana jerks to answer it exactly one second after that.

The second after Santana hits the accept button on her phone, Brittany's smiling face appears and all of the day's tension just melts away. Brittany's face cuts in and out of frame as she moves around, so excited to use her new video app that she can't keep still and focus. The background moves so fast that Santana can't tell what it is except for shades of beige and grey.

"B, how was your flight? How's Florida?"

"It's sooo hot here, Santana. It's like that time I got stuck in the sauna and my mom didn't find me for an hour."

"I told you you wouldn't need half of those clothes that you packed, silly." Santana smiles lovingly at Brittany's pouting face. She already misses her and she hasn't even been gone a day.

"The airport was fine though. As soon as I got off the plane there was someone waiting for me with a sign with my name on it. I thought maybe there was another Brittany Pierce, but it was for me! They knew where to find my bag too which was good, because I was so tired I was starting to see blurry."

"Well, it serves you right for making us stay up so late last night," Santana snickers.

"Whatever. You know you liked it." Brittany sticks her tongue out at Santana and the fire that sparks in her core kinda melts her heart too.

"I did B. It was a really um... awesome night. I'm gonna miss sleeping with you this summer." Santana bashfully looks away, and wonders if maybe video-chatting is such a good idea after all. She's not used to Brittany seeing her blush when they talk dirty over the phone.

"San you should totally come visit me here. There's a really big bed in my motel room."

"I would love to, B, but there's no way my parents would let me... unless I convince them I wanna visit my grandparents in Miami. I haven't seen them in a really long time and my dad was just talking about them today. He'd probably pay for me to fly down there. How close are you to Miami?"

Brittany looks away from the phone and Santana grins when she sees Brittany's tongue catch between her teeth and her eyebrows furrow. It's her concentration face. "It's like... four inches on the map." She flashes Santana a quick peak at a standard, motel-issued courtesy map of the state and points with her finger. "Hey look, there's a town called Fort Pierce halfway between Miami and Daytona Beach. I should totally go there on my bike. Wait. Um... it looks like it's like four hours away." She points the phone back at her face and frowns at Santana.

"I'll try and make that work, B." Santana says, as she paces the room, running her hands through her hair and wondering how quickly she can convince her father that she needs a plane ticket to Miami to visit her grandparents. She loses her fervor, however, when she realizes he'll probably make her pay for it with her own money, now that she has a job. Then she remembers her afternoon resolution and sits back down on the couch, resigned to make better choices.

"But aren't you supposed to be super busy training and stuff? I'm afraid you'd get in trouble and I don't want you fucking up this opportunity. It's a lot of money and a chance for you to really make a name for yourself, babe. As much as I'd love to meet you in Florida and sleep with you in your huge motel bed, we can only do it if you don't get in trouble."

"But San, there's a hot tub we can go in any time we want and in my room there's this tiny refrigerator that has drinks and some candy that we can eat too. I'd share with you."

"B, those little candies cost a lot of money, be careful they don't make you pay for those. Just cuz it's in your room doesn't mean it's free. Remember when we were in New York and Mr. Schue told us not to eat the candy in our room? It's like that."

Brittany sighs and gives Santana one of her little pouts. "Yeah, that's what my teammates told me, too."

Santana smiles and sees her opportunity to erase Brittany's frown. "Tell me about them. What are they like? Are they nice?"

Brittany perks right back up again and says, "Well, there are three other girls, and six guys, but I only room with girls."

"Wait, you didn't tell me there were gonna be guys on the tour too. I don't think I like this, Britt." Santana returns Brittany's pout, which makes her giggle.

"It's not like I'm interested. I'm taken, remember?"

"Yeah," Santana smiles, "but they'll all be hitting on you and stuff and trying to get you drunk. I don't want you to get drunk and take your clothes off in front of a bunch of pervy, intoxicated motocross guys, Britt."

"Sanny, calm down. There's only one person who's allowed to hit on me and get me drunk and take my clothes off and you know who you are. These boys stink, anyways. Actually, everyone stinks here. It's really hot." Brittany wrinkles her nose for effect.

Santana snorts at Brittany's everlasting cuteness, but can't let go of the fact that a lot of other people are going to see how fucking cute she is too. "You promise me B, you promise me that you're not gonna... you know, get interested in drunk, smelly motocross guys? Or girls?"

"You really need me to promise, San? Even after the airport?"

Santana chews her lips and glances sheepishly to her right. "Um… I guess not." She shakes her head hoping to release her fears, and in the moment she realizes that she needs to tell Brittany how she feels, that this is the hard part of being in a grown up relationship. She gulps. "Sorry I'm being so lame, B, I just... I just get scared with you being away for so long, you know. I won't be able to touch you, or hug you, or do... stuff… with you."

"Aw, Sanny. You know I'm gonna miss you too. I really wish I could do all those things too, but here, this'll do for now." Brittany's face closes in on the camera until all Santana can see is an extreme close-up of her nostrils and her upper lip. She hears the smacking of the kiss over her speaker and her heart soars again. God, she is just so fucking cute! Santana can't resist bringing her own phone to her lips to kiss Brittany back, but by the time she does, Brittany's lips have moved away and Santana feels embarrassed that she tried to capture the feel of those lips through an electronic device. _Idiot_.

"Sooo... tell me more about Florida. The tour. Your teammates."

"Well, the girls' team captain is really nice. I hope they room me with her most of the time. Her name's Vanessa."

"You don't get your own room? I thought you did. Guess I won't bother trying to sneak down to Florida for a visit then," Santana smirks.

"We get our own rooms while we're in training, but not when we're touring. And, I'd make sure we got our own room if you came to visit," Brittany smirks right back.

"So is this Vanessa as hot as me?"

"Um... well she kinda looks like you except she's taller and she's old, like twenty-four. And besides, no one's as hot as you, San," Brittany giggles.

"She looks like me? Like, how _much_ like me? Cuz I can't have my Britt-Britt getting all hot for an older model!"

Brittany laughs openly. "She is pretty hot, but doesn't like girls anyway, so you have nothing to be worried about. I think she's engaged or something. She keeps going on and on about someone named Tim."

"Well, I still think I need to meet this girl and give her a little dose of Cosas Malas Lopez, if you know what I mean. Let her know that she can't mess with my girl."

Brittany blushes over the phone and starts giggling like a child and Santana can't help but join in. It's partly because the sound of Brittany's laughter makes her so happy—it lodges in her body and bounces around her soul light a prism of light—and partly because, although Brittany thinks she's kidding, she's deadly serious, and that's hilarious. She will kick the ass of anyone who messes with her girl.

Santana changes the topic. "Are you nervous for your first day tomorrow, B?"

Brittany stops laughing and takes her lip between her teeth and Santana immediately feels guilty. She knows what that look means.

"Yeah. I've got a lot to prove, ya know? I'm the youngest by, like, a lot." Brittany begins twirling her hair around her finger, the first sign she is worried about something.

"You'll be so awesome Britt! Everyone will be so jealous of how good you are."

"I dunno, San... everyone here is _really_ good. It's not just Lima motocross. These people are here to get deals with Nike and stuff and I just want to make it through the summer and come home in one piece."

"Okay, well promise me that you'll be careful then. Don't try anything dangerous. And just do your best."

"I will, but I just don't know if my best is good enough." Santana can see the background flashing by and knows that Brittany is pacing her room. She never can sit still when she is nervous.

Santana knows she needs to calm Brittany down. It's not like her to have a crisis in confidence. "It will be. They chose _you_, right? And you're the youngest, so you must be really good!

"But I have the most to prove. They were already making jokes about how they can't order HBO when I'm in the room cuz I'm too young to watch it."

"B, I believe in you. Every time you get on that bike I want you to remember our bike ride and how I held you so tight, and I want you to feel my arms and legs wrapped around you and I want you to think of me protecting you, okay? And if those motocross bitches make fun of you, Imma come down there and go all Lima Heights on their asses. And you can tell 'em I said so!"

Brittany is giggling again, and the makes Santana happy. She can't stand seeing an unconfident Brittany. "If I think about our bike ride, San, I'll get turned on and then I might drive off the course and across the state and come see you so you can help me out." She guffaws. "And that might be _dangerous_."

"Well, just remember the first part of the ride then," Santana smirks before she decides it's time to change the subject again. "So, um... I saw my dad today."

"Oh yeah, how'd that go?" Brittany reclines onto her bed and Santana can see a generic wooden headboard behind her, Brittany's blonde hair haloed against it by the light from the bedside lamp.

"He said I have to get an effing job! I have to work at his colleague's office in Lima. And it is sooo gonna suck."

"Well, maybe it'll be fun. Maybe you'll learn something." Trust Brittany to always look for the silver lining. It's just one more of the many things that Santana loves about her.

"Puh-lease. Me, learn something from some old quack? You know the doctor is gonna be all know-it-all or whatever, or bossy like my dad. And I'll probably just be around a bunch of old, sick people all summer. Like, I'll probably catch the Ebola virus or obesity or something."

"San, even I know you can't catch obesity. It's like generic, you get it from your parents, and your parents are thin." Brittany gives Santana her best eye roll.

"So, did you talk to your dad about… stuff?"

"You mean the 'horror of me having to get a job this summer' stuff? Cuz yeah, we covered that."

"No... other stuff."

"Um... nooo. What kind of other stuff do you mean?

"I dunno." Brittany shrugs.

"Britt?" Santana asks, starting to get concerned. It's not like the new Brittany to beat around the bush. She's pretty good about saying what's on her mind these days.

"Like... 'about you and me' stuff."

"Oh... well… I don't think he's really ready to hear about that stuff. I mean, all he did today was lecture me on how I need to step up and start making the family proud of me. I don't think me telling him that I'm dating my best friend is exactly what he was talking about."

"You don't think he'd be proud of you if he knew?"

Santana deflates, slumping back against the couch, her face compressing with worry. She scrubs her forehead with her palm willing the gesture to remove the memory of today's visit. "I'm sorry B. But he's just not like your parents. I mean they seem kinda okay with the idea of us. But my family, they're Catholic. They're Cuban. They're not gonna be okay with me being a... you know."

"What? In a long distance relationship?"

"Gay," she mumbles, dejected.

"Is it that big of a deal?"

Santana cocks her head and scowls. Surely, even Brittany has to know that this is a big deal. Her instinct is to yell and scream and pull her hair, to maybe throw something. _Of course it's a fucking big deal_. But, Santana is turning over a new leaf these days. She's trying to be a real girlfriend and make better choices, so she checks her temper and explains the situation to Brittany. "B, you know I love you, and I think we got really lucky with your parents—like _crazy_ lucky—but I don't think I'm gonna be able to tell mine. At least not while I'm still living in Lima. I know that's not what you want. But you know how my mom is, all she cares about is getting a man to support her, and well, my dad is... pretty strict and stuff."

"I just want us to be happy, sweetie," Brittany whispers. She ducks her eyes to the side, and tucks her chin into her chest but Santana can still see her lip beginning to tremble. God, this is so not how she wanted their first night apart to go.

"Well… how about if I think about it? Okay? While you're gone this summer, I'll think about how to talk to them, okay? I'll think about how to tell them about us." She pauses. Brittany is still frowning, unable to look Santana in the eyes. "Please don't be sad, sweetie."

"It makes me sad for _you_ that you can't tell them. I mean, yeah I don't like hiding, but if you think they'll be upset... I guess it's okay." Brittany finally glances at Santana and she sees tears glinting in her eyes.

"Fuck, B, now you're making _me_ sad. You know I hate seeing you like this." Both girls frown and look away from each other. There is a painful pause while each thinks of a way to change the mood.

Brittany finally breaks the silence with a gulp and a forced smile. "Tell me three good things, Sanny."

Santana perks up, forcing a smile of her own. "Um... okay. One—I love you."

Brittany truly smiles.

"Two—you're beautiful."

Brittany smiles bigger.

"Three—you're gonna be the best motocross-riding girl on the whole east coast this summer."

"San, stop it." Brittany is blushing to the tips of her ears, which Santana finds most endearing.

"Four—I'm sooo proud of you. You've really grown up a lot this year, B."

"No, I'm proud of _you_. What you said this morning? You didn't just say it; you yelled it in front of everyone at the airport. That was even more exciting to me than the plane taking off, and you know I love takeoffs."

Brittany is gushing, and for the first time all day, Santana is proud of her behavior in the airport. She blushes. "Well, I meant it, you know. And um… someday I'll get to the point where I don't care who knows it. Not my parents, not people at school, not strangers in the airport. Just maybe not quite yet... but I'm trying B, okay? I'm trying."

"I think telling the whole airport is a lot for one day." Brittany's grin is so endearing that, in that instant, Santana realizes she'd do it all again in heartbeat.

"Yeah, me too. I was kinda in a daze afterward. I can't believe I did it, you know? But I don't regret it, B. Please know that, okay?"

"I know, San." Brittany is still borderline teary, but she doesn't let herself cry, instead she chirps, "Hey I've got an idea! We should make a list of all the things we want to do when I get home."

"Good idea. I'm gonna start right now. Number one, Brittany showing me just how flexible she is," Santana smirks.

"Number two, Santana taking me on a real date," Brittany says sincerely and Santana's heart breaks a little at the reminder of just how much she has to make up to Brittany.

"I _will_ take you on a real date. Where would you like to go?"

Brittany begins bouncing on her bed with excitement; she's hardly able to contain herself. "You can choose. As long as we get dessert." She all but shouts it and Santana winces as she adjusts the volume on her phone.

"Breadstix and a movie?" She laughs at the cheesy suggestion. "Or we could stay home and watch some Sweet Valley High... wink wink." Santana says, using one of their 'secret codes' and adding a very exaggerated wink.

"Mmm that sounds good... and that means we could cross two things off the list at once."

"It does." Santana purrs. But the sight of Brittany, giddy on the other end of her phone, so excited at the prospect of going out on a stupid date that she can't sit still, changes her attitude. "But, you know what? I'm _gonna_ take you on a real date; a going-out-in-public date. Cuz I wanna show you off and _then_ bring you home and cross things off our list."

"Really?" Brittany asks with such a hopeful face, it's heartbreaking.

"I promise, Britt." Santana says, and she really means it. It's months away, so she figures she's safe making this promise. After all, a lot can change in a summer.

"So, um… speaking of crossing thing off our list, I was thinking about those movies we watch sometimes, and I was wondering if you want to... if we could um... watch those movies together or something. Like, over the phone?" Brittany is still excited, but now has a coy little grin.

Santana knows that grin and responds in kind. "Oh yeah? Is that what you were thinking? I guess we could do that, if you want." She draws it out, as if she really has to think about it. Like watching porn and masturbating wasn't going to be the only sex she got all summer.

"And would you touch yourself while we did?" Wait, Brittany's serious? She really wants to have videophone sex? She gulps.

"Would you... _want_ me to touch myself?" Santana asks, her throat going dry.

"I love it when you touch yourself, San. And I love when you touch me. I would imagine it was you touching me when I touched myself, and you could watch me on your phone and then we'd take turns and I could watch you." Brittany is unabashed in her want and Santana gets a glimpse of what the summer has in store for her: Brittany, on the phone looking at her with smoky eyes and pouty lips, Brittany, pinching her own nipples, moaning and touching herself on her phone screen.

Santana licks her lips in anticipation. She doesn't care how nervous she suddenly feels at the prospect of being naked onscreen, she _needs_ this. Besides, she's a badass, and it's just sex—they've had that a thousand times (maybe, the calculations are still in the works). Why should the thought of watching Brittany over her phone be any different than watching her in person? She can do this. She grins bashfully. "And I love it when you touch yourself too, but I won't love it if you're doing that in front of your roommates!"

"Oh, no I wouldn't do that," Brittany giggles. "That's a girlfriend-only privilege. I'll figure something out so we have some privacy. I'm sure Vanessa will want 'private time' with Tim, so we can make some sort of deal. We'll figure it out."

"Yeah, we got all summer to work something out. We can talk about it later. Besides, I had such a good time last night, I think I'm good to go for at least a couple of weeks now." Santana grins.

"Wow, I must be really good if you're good for weeks!" Brittany crows.

Santana purrs, "you are good, Baby. Sooo good." She runs her hand down her throat and past her breasts in a clichéd move hoping to illicit a throaty giggle from Brittany.

It works. Brittany's voice is throaty, but she's not laughing.

"You're good too, but I still want you again. Right. Now."

Santana is equally frustrated by the sizzle in Brittany's voice as well as her words. "Damn, B. You can't talk like that and have me want you and not be able to do anything about it. That's so not fair. This is going to be one long ass summer if you keep talking like that. You are wicked."

"I thought I was nice, like Glinda," Brittany replies, giving her a saucy look.

"Well, wicked is nice sometimes too." Santana returns the look. She's starting to enjoy this little teasing game Brittany's made up. She could get used to this on her phone every night.

"Tell me Santana, do you like the way I taste? Cuz I like the way you taste and I swear I can still taste you on my fingers." Brittany brings her right hand to her face and sniffs it deeply before running her tongue up and down her first two fingers. She then pulls them both into her mouth, sucking them down to the last knuckle, her perfect lips wrapped taut around them. She closes her eyes and moans as she slowly draws her fingers in and out of her mouth.

Santana moans along with her. The game just got serious. In an instant she is wet, she is flustered and she almost drops her phone.

"So, you, uh, like the way I taste?"

"Yes I do, you silly girl," Brittany murmurs, still working her fingers in and out of her mouth.

Santana brings her own hand to her nose and swears she can still smell Brittany on her hands and it drives her crazy. Forgetting she's on video, she closes her eyes and sucks her own fingers into her mouth, searching for that taste, that essence of Brittany that will take her back to last night; to skin on skin, to lips pressed tight, to soft caresses and a firm rhythm, but it's elusive. She remembers she is not making love to Brittany, but rather alone in her living room with a phone and drops her hand from her mouth.

"You taste good too, B. I'm really gonna miss that."

Brittany sighs, "me too." Both girls pause, staring hard, unsure. Finally, Brittany breaks the silence.

"So every night I'm gonna call you at ten o'clock, unless there's something happening, and I'm gonna tell you three good things and you tell me three good things about each of our days? And "I love you" and "you're beautiful" don't count because those are good things every day," Brittany says with a grin.

"I doubt I'll have three good things in my day after I start this stupid job," Santana grumbles.

"Maybe your job won't be stupid."

"Not holding my breath, but whatever."

"Then I'll send you a funny picture during the day to make you smile, and if I can't take a funny picture, I'll send you a video of some cats riding a Roomba or something."

Santa laughs, of course Brittany would have all manner of cat videos at her disposal. "At least your job doesn't suck. You get to ride your bike around and make a bucket of money."

"I think my job will suck sometimes," Brittany ponders. "Like tomorrow when it's 95 degrees at eight am and we have eleven hours of training and my uniform is so hot..." Brittany's voice tapers off as the reality of the situation sinks into her thoughts. Her entire body droops, and she looks exhausted.

"So, I guess I should let you go so you can get a good night's sleep for your first day of training, huh, B?"

"I guess, but I don't wanna hang up. But I also don't wanna play the 'you hang up first' game because I always worry that I lost and then you get sad I hung up on you.

"I don't want to play that game either. But you always win, because I never want to be the one that hangs up on you either, Brittany."

"Will you dream about me?"

"I'll dream about you every night that you're away."

"What will we be doing in your dream?" Brittany asks as she yawns.

"Holding each other in your bed. I will sing to you until you fall asleep in my arms, and I will run my fingers thru your hair until your eyes close and you settle into me soft and warm and asleep."

"Will you sing me to sleep now, Santana?"

"Of course, B. Get into bed now and I'll sing Songbird to you."

"But that might make me cry and I need to brush my teeth."

"K. I'll brush mine too."

Santana walks to her bathroom as she watches Brittany walk into her bathroom, the blur of a generic motel room passing behind her, and set the phone down. All she can see is a white ceiling and Brittany's elbow as it occasionally comes in and out of the frame as Brittany brushes her teeth. Twice she leans over her phone and bares a foamy grin at Santana and then pulls back quickly before she can drool toothpaste on her new phone. Santana is so enraptured watching Brittany, she barely takes a swipe at her own teeth, rinsing, spitting, and wiping her mouth hurriedly so she doesn't miss a moment of saying goodnight to Brittany.

They both clamber onto their beds and Santana notices that Britt's changed into an old t-shirt of hers for sleeping. She doesn't remember leaving it at Brittany's house, but she's glad Brittany has something of hers on the tour. Santana pulls her own shirt off and reaches for Britt's 'I'm With Stoopid' t-shirt that she'd stowed in her bag the night before. As she pulls it over her head, she can smell Brittany on it and a wave of _last night_ rushes over her. It's so strong that she reels backward, hitting her head against the headboard. She's dizzy and she's not sure if it's from the knock on her head or being immersed in everything _Brittany_ once again.

"I heard that. Did you just conk your head?" Brittany asks.

"Yeah, but I'm okay." Santana recovers, bringing the phone back up to her face. "Now get into bed, B." She watches as Brittany crawls into her bed, the phone catching both Brittany's body and the sheets as she pulls them up around her chest.

Settling into her own bed, Santana says, "If I were there I'd be tucking in with you, so imagine me crawling in next to you and pulling the sheet over us. Now imagine my arms around you and imagine laying your head on my chest."

On her phone Santana watches Brittany turn out the light, the phone adjusting to the darkness just in time to see Brittany curl into her motel bed. She tucks the sheet under her chin, and lays her head down on her pillow, holding the phone sideways on the pillow next to her so she can still see Santana through half-closed eyelids. Her image is skewed, but Santana remembers seeing that exact face lying on her own pillow many times. It's muscle memory that causes her to reach out to caress it, before she realizes that Brittany's not lying on the pillow next to her.

Her voice is raspy and a little off key as she begins to quietly sing from her pillow. "For you, there'll be no more crying. For you, the sun will be shining…"

As she sings, Santana watches Brittany's face soften into sleep. Her smile relaxes and her eyelids droop. The phone tilts away until Santana can only see a nose, one closed eye and a mass of blonde hair that looks silver in the light of the phone. As she finishes the song with a hum, she's not sure Brittany's still awake so she whispers, "g'night Britt. I love you."

"I love you too, San." Brittany mumbles, pretty much talking in her asleep.

Santana gazes at Brittany sleeping for a few moments before she pushes 'end' on her phone and Brittany is gone.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: Special thanks again to my betas: jeune fille en fleur, themostrandomfandom, and grownupspashley. It takes a village to write a fic, and they are my villagers. They are more influential than they can possibly know.**

* * *

><p>Chapter 5<p>

Santana wakes up late the next day, the murmurings of her conversation with Brittany still echoing in her mind. Her new job doesn't start until next week and with Britt gone and nothing on her agenda, she doesn't bother with nice clothes or make-up. She's sitting in her sweats in front of the television with a hot pocket, a diet coke and a Jersey Shore marathon when there's a knock on the door.

Santana is shocked to see Quinn Fabray on her stoop.

"Little too white for this neighborhood, aren't you Fabray?" she asks as she opens the door and cocks her hip against it, wedging herself between it and the doorframe so that her unexpected visitor can't see inside.

Quinn has only been to her house once before; the night of the freshman Cheerios initiation when Santana was "kidnapped" by the senior captains and made to do fairly ridiculous things in the name of inclusion. She remembers seeing the look on the faces of the other freshmen as she was pulled through her front door in her pajamas. Their nervous glances indicated that they were no happier about being in Lima Heights Adjacent at night than she was happy that they now knew where she lived. Santana's not sure whom to thank for the fact that after that night, not another word was said about her residence: not amongst the Cheerios, or the school, but based on the wise smile she gave Santana that night, she's always secretly wondered if Quinn Fabray didn't have something to do with it.

"Shut up, Santana, and come with me," Quinn says, jerking her chin toward her mother's sedan sitting in the driveway and giving Santana that bitch glare that she uses on everyone she meets.

"First of all, hell no! I'm not going anywhere with you in that piece of shit. And second of all, what is up with this outfit? You going to a Guns n' Roses concert later on?" She appraises Quinn from head to toe, crossing her arms and meeting Quinn's smirk.

Quinn is wearing very short, cut-off and frayed denim shorts, a tight black tank with a skull on it, a studded leather belt, dark eye make-up, and more cheap pendants and bangles than Santana even owns. She captures Santana's roving eyes with an eye challenge of her own, yet the way she shifts from foot to foot, and crosses her arms across her chest tells Santana that Quinn is not exactly comfortable in her new clothing.

"And second of all, why should I go anywhere with you? The last time you showed up here and I got dragged out of my house and in your presence I had to swallow a live goldfish. And that was just the _first_ in a long line of 'you screwing me over' incidents. Think I'm gonna pass." She attempts to close the door in Quinn's face. Several of Quinn's bangles clatter together as her very strong arm reaches out and slams into the door, stopping it in place. Both girls are a little stunned by the ferocity of that slam, but Quinn continues, her hissing voice every bit as commanding as when she was captain of the Cheerios.

"Look, I'm here to help you. And you can either get in the car with me and we can talk while we get the _hell_ out of this neighborhood. Or you can let me in and we can talk inside: your choice. Either way, I'm sick of your creepy neighbor giving me the eye."

Both girls glance toward Santana's next-door neighbor, who is seated on the porch, clad head-to-toe in heavy black denim, and sipping a forty from a paper bag.

He gives both girls a hard stare as he tips the bottle to his lips.

"Ugh, that's the hoarders' pedo son. When she died, he moved in and I swear he never leaves that porch. Gives me the creeps." Santana shivers and contemplates her choices for a moment; allow Quinn into her home or get in a car with her, be at her mercy and go god knows where. Still, despite a few slaps and a hair pull after leaking her surgery to Coach Sylvester, Quinn hasn't ever _really_ hurt her. And judging by her outfit and the fact that she just said the word "hell" Santana thinks maybe she's not that much of a religious nut job any more. There are probably worse things she could do with her day.

"Fine. Just give me a sec." She grabs her keys and her purse and slips into her flip-flops and joins Quinn on the porch, locking the door but leaving the television on. The noise might work to keep the vandals away, or in the event that her mother actually comes home, remind her that Santana still lives there.

"Seriously though Q, what is up with this outfit? I can't tell if you're doing Madonna circa 1985, or skanky 'ho from the corner circa last weekend." She gives Quinn another one of her appraisals as they both walk toward the car. She notices the creepy neighbor giving Quinn the exact same look.

"Fuck you." Quinn says as she gets into the car, but she says it with a hint of a smile.

Santana places her hands over her ears and feigns shock, but smiles back.

They peel out of Lima Heights Adjacent fast enough to turn heads and Santana's not sure if she's impressed or a little frightened. Quinn can be scary sometimes. Santana thought that maybe they recaptured a bit of their old friendship (with was always tenuous at best) in New York, but the school year had ended with little else said between the two girls. Brittany has been taking up every bit of Santana's thoughts and feelings since school let out, so she hasn't bothered to keep track of what anyone else from school is doing for the summer. And it's not like any of them care what she's doing either.

Still, Quinn is clearly up to _something_ new if her outfit is any indication and Santana, being Santana, can't wait to find out what that is. And the cursing? Well, that's just the cherry on the top of her curiosity.

"So you gonna tell me what's up with this outfit? And your mouth?" she finally asks, giving Quinn a full body scan from the passenger seat.

Quinn answers her with a smirk and a toss of her messy hair.

"Cuz the Quinn Fabray I know wouldn't be caught dead looking like a cross between Debbie Harry and an extra on Jersey Shore. She may be stupid enough to get pregnant and spit out the spawn of the biggest Lima loser in the school, but at least she doesn't look like a whore."

Quinn's eyes narrow and her hands grip the steering wheel, but again, her only comment is a nasty look thrown Santana's direction, this one worse than the previous.

Santana knows if she pushes hard enough, Quinn will snap. It's happened before. All she needs to do it push the right button. "So, if you're not going to explain your outfit, are you going to tell me what's up with this little abduction role-playing game you got me involved in? Or is this a new fetish to go with your new look? Cuz, _I'm not that into that_, Quinn."

Quinn slams on the brakes as she pulls them over to the side of the road. Santana is relieved she put her seatbelt on when it slams her back into her seat, preventing her from hitting the dash. Hard.

"Shut your fucking mouth Santana, and listen to me." Quinn is growling and there is a hint of that old, bitchy Cheerios captain that Santana both despised and kinda-sorta looked up to. "This is what you're going to do. You're going to sit there, _quietly_, while I tell you what's good for you. You're not going to say another word about my wardrobe, or that fact that I was pregnant. You're not going to say a word about Puck or Finn or Sam. You're not going to question me or attempt to ridicule, slander or malign me. You are going to sit there and shut. The. Fuck. Up. Got it?"

Santana nods, afraid to do anything else. This is not the Quinn Fabray she knows. Well, the bitchy, demanding part is, but the cursing, yelling and brake-slamming part isn't. Santana finds herself unsettled, a little frightened, and very intrigued. She nods again, a curt gesture of conviction and acquiescence. A 'well played, my friend' conciliatory hand roll accompanies it and Quinn gets that Santana is relinquishing control. She nods as well, puts the car in gear and pulls back out onto the road.

The make their way onto the freeway heading north in silence. Minutes pass until Santana can't take it any longer; the suspense is really starting to get to her. "So, where are you taking me on this lovely afternoon, Fabray?" Santana asks.

"Detroit," Quinn answers, as if it were just around the corner and not a three-hour drive.

"Detroit? I can't go to Detroit!" Santana yells.

"Why not, you got somewhere else you've got to be? I happen to know that that Jersey Shore marathon you were so engaged in will still be on when we get home. I also happen to know that Brittany left yesterday for her tour and that you haven't talked to anyone else from school since the year ended. So, I'm pretty sure there is nothing and no one on your busy agenda, Santana."

"Oh, you think you know so much about my life, do you Fabray? Well, fuck you. I don't have to take dick from you. But you wouldn't know anything about taking dick from someone, would you? Oh wait. Lemme ask Puck, I'm sure he knows just how you like it. Drunk and submissive, right?"

Quinn grips the steering wheel so hard, her knuckles turn white, "Santana, I will throw you out of this car if you so much as say one more word to me. I'm trying to do you a favor, but you wouldn't know what a friend was if they bit you in the ass, would you? Cuz Santana Lopez doesn't do friends, right? She's too cool. _Or_ she's just too fucked up to admit that she might actually _need_ a friend once in a while." Quinn's eyes glint with fury and her breathing is heated and yet through all that anger, Santana sees something else in her eyes, something sad and a little desperate.

Santana seethes at Quinn's criticism, but after her outburst she's not too eager to anger her again. She actually believes Quinn is capable of throwing her out of the car at a freeway rest stop and does not relish the idea of getting a ride back to Lima from some pervy businessman or trucker intent on looking down her shirt.

"Okay, so _why_ are we going to Detroit?" Santana finally asks, with a resigned huff, careful to stick to subjects that won't further anger the driver.

"You'll see. Just trust me." Quinn gives Santana an enigmatic look before she leans over to crank the volume of the music she's playing. _Since when did Quinn start listening to hardcore riot girl groups?_ But she says nothing, leaning back into her seat and watching the endless cornfields slip by as the car races northward.

The drive passes, not in silence—Quinn's music is too loud and angry for that—but without further comment from either girl. Quinn rolls the windows down as the day heats up and rests her arm on the door, steering with one hand. Santana lets her hand ride the waves of the wind until the hot wind and Quinn's humming puts her into a stupor.

They stop in Toledo for gas, gum, Twizzlers and sodas. Santana gets a grape slushie and ironically toasts Quinn with it as she climbs back in the car. For all her bravado, Santana's never actually thrown a slushie and she realizes as she nurses hers in the car, that it's a good thing. It's heavy and cold and even touching the cup leaves her hand sticky. In that moment she wonders what senior year will bring. Will she be the slushier or the slushied?

They near Detroit and the cornfields disappear as they merge into suburbia and then the city. Santana can't help but bug Quinn about their destination once again. For every "so, where are we going?" she asks, the answers vary only in tone, but never content. Quinn's eye rolls become more pronounced each time she tells Santana to just trust her and be patient, that she'll see.

They finally pull into a school in what Santana can tell is most definitely not one of the better parts of town. (Hey, she knows her 'hoods, okay?). The roaring blue lion above the entrance looks familiar and as they pull around back to the football field, Santana remembers why.

"What are we doing at Jefferson High? Didn't we perform here at Regionals, freshman year?"

Quinn nods, checks her watch and signals Santana to get out of the car and they both head toward the bleachers. Down on the field, a rag-tag group of black students are milling around what looks like an overgrown playground set.

They climb the bleachers and again, as Santana tries to question her, Quinn simply shuts her down with a glare and a "just watch," and so she resigns herself to doing as she's told, but not without a return glare in Quinn's direction. _Bitch is so on my list_.

They find a bench and sit watching the dozen or so teens mill about on the field. They don't seem to have any purpose, organization or even a uniform to indicate what, if any, sport they play. Their leader seems to be the smallest member of the group. She is tiny, white, blonde and clad in a tight tank and yoga pants. A red flowery tattoo peeks over her shoulder. She is laughing and pointing at the various students who seem to hang on her every word, eager to follow her instructions despite every one of them being larger, and looking much fiercer.

Unable to discern what it going on down on the field, Santana turns her attention back to Quinn and really looks her over. The haircut they'd given her in New York is shaggy now and her clothes are faded and ripped. Her eye make-up is heavy, caked and none too graceful. Even her nails are short and unpainted with ragged cuticles. It's almost like she's let herself go. Santana can see she's obviously going out of her way to rebel, but what else Quinn is trying to say with this outfit?

"So, are you going to tell me about it?" she asks, after a thorough scrutiny that Quinn ignores.

"About what?"

"What's going on with your new look? I'm as down as the next girl to see you lose that Christian, goody-two-shoes look you've been sporting the last couple of years, but even pregnant, you never managed to look this…" she indicates Quinn's outfit with her hand, knowing full well she can not say the word _bad_ out loud.

Santana treads lightly. She knows that Quinn can blow up faster and more often than Old Faithful and she's already been on the receiving end of one of her verbal bitch slaps today. She sees no sense in angering her only way back home.

"Seriously Q, what's this all about?"

"I'll tell you about it later. Maybe. We're here for _you_. Watch, listen, and learn. This is a reconnaissance mission." Quinn points back down at the field where the group seems to be circling around the overlarge jungle gym in the middle of the field.

Santana sighs and turns her attention just in time for the music to start and the team (yes, they are a team) to burst into action spinning, jumping, flipping, and practically flying off of every bar, post and metal structure on the field. At first it looks chaotic, but Santana soon sees the structure and rhythm in the moves and she is mesmerized. The choreography itself is simple, but the stunts are amazing and her mouth falls open as she stares in wonder. How is this shit even possible?

At the end of the routine, the music stops and the performers all fall into each other hugging, high-fiving and cheering one another. The tiny white girl (can she possibly be their coach?—she looks smaller and younger than all of them) bounces from person to person giving them hugs and feedback. She does a couple of quick demos against a vertical bar that makes the rest of the team's exploits look amateurish and Santana forgets that it is even possible to close her mouth, she is so stunned.

"God, Q! What are they? What the fuck was that?"

Quinn sighs and turns to her with the first non-bitchy look she's had on her face all day. "_That_ is your competition. And their coach," she indicates the small, blond woman, "is a former Olympic gymnast. They swept Nationals last year and are a shoe-in for this year as well. And if you want to have any kind of chance at beating them, you're going to have to study their moves and incorporate them into the Cheerios' routines."

"I can't do that!" Santana wails. "I'd kill myself if I tried."

"You can if you practice. You've got all summer to learn those moves and then show them to Coach Sylvester at the fall tryouts."

"I quit Cheerios. You were there. Coach Sylvester can lose every year from now on for all I care," Santana asks with a huff.

"You care, Santana, because you are going to get back on that squad, become head cheerleader, and lead them to another national title. Well, you and Brittany. She can rejoin when she gets back."

"And why would I want to do that? You know I hate Sue Sylvester for what she tried to do to Brittany."

Quinn sighs again but meets Santana's eyes with a look of fervor. "Because you and I both know that Becky is a good kid, but she's no head Cheerio. That team needs a leader, someone who knows the routines and can run them with precision, and who can also rule the girls. _And_ because you want a scholarship so you can get the hell out of Ohio. _And_ because you want to prove that you're Santana Fucking Lopez, head bitch in charge at McKinley High. You want your mojo back. You don't think I didn't see how hard it was for you last spring after we quit? You pretty much fell apart. And I should know, I was right there with you. Falling apart myself."

"Don't _you_ want to rejoin and be head? You know Coach'd give it to you over me, anyway. Just like last year." Santana's anger has cooled over that incident. Yeah, it's still there, a hard, cold stone in her gut that churns every time she is reminded that _Quinn Fabray is better than you_, but at least she can admit it now. She can acknowledge that she probably would've done the same thing in Quinn's shoes. She doesn't see red when she looks at Quinn any more.

"I'm not going back to Cheerios. Glee either. I'm through with all of that; popularity, clubs, trying to fit in. It's all just bullshit."

This is definitely not the Quinn Fabray she knows. The Quinn Fabray she knows might get pregnant and knocked off the social hierarchy, but she comes back swinging (a fact Santana can attest to) and she comes back playing for keeps. The Quinn Fabray she knows takes what she wants and lets no one stand in her way. The Quinn Fabray she knows doesn't give her rivals advice and she sure as hell doesn't sacrifice herself in order for them to take it.

"Why are you doing this?" Santana asks, eyeing her warily. "Why are you _giving_ this to me? You wanted that position as much as I did."

Quinn takes a deep breath before answering. "Because you're going to need that uniform to protect yourself and Brittany when you come out this year."

Santana stares at her. An awkward, thick silence envelops her. Her head is cloudy, and nothing but the words _come out this year_ seem to penetrate it.

She opens her mouth to struggle for an explanation, but there is nothing there. No words can explain how she feels about Brittany; no thoughts can convey the images that swirl through her mind when she thinks of her. No poetry can depict the beauty of Brittany's eyes or the soft caress of her hands. Santana is speechless. Not because Brittany is so beautiful—because, _god she's stunning_—no, she's terrified and shocked that Quinn is so bold.

"I… We…" she blusters, but her voice trails off, empty, and she realizes she's only making it worse.

Moments pass in silence.

"How did you know?" Santana finally whispers, afraid to look Quinn in the eye.

Quinn doesn't meet her eyes either; instead she directs her soft, lilting voice toward the team on the field now regrouping to run their routine again. "Give me some credit, Santana. I've been watching you watch her for three years now. And frankly, you look at her like a starving man looks at a steak. And I see the way she looks at you, too. The feeling's mutual. I didn't get it at first, how two girls could love each other like that, but I do now. And although I'm jealous as hell sometimes that you two have each other, I really want you to make it work."

Quinn looks at her over her shoulder and smiles, then takes Santana's hand as if she knows there is a very good chance that Santana could bolt and run all the way back to Lima. She needs to be tethered to something. "And Santana?" she says, forcing Santana to meet her eyes. "Don't worry. I'm not going to tell anyone."

They watch Jefferson High perform enough times for Santana to get her breath back, her heartbeat under control, and for her to actually start committing some of the moves to memory. At the end of their practice, the coach gives everyone on the team a hug before she sends them off with a _great job everybody_. Santana thinks that Coach Sylvester could take a few pointers from this woman.

And that's when she realizes that she's made her decision. She's going to do it—take Quinn's advice and resume her old position. As she makes her way down the bleachers and back into Quinn's car, she's already planning in her head the conversation she'll have with Coach come September.

The drive back to Lima takes no time at all.

Santana and Quinn talk—really _talk—_ about things. They talk about the spring, and Cheerios and Glee, and prom and New York. They talk about how neither of them got what they wanted last year.

Santana doesn't tell Quinn how she feels about Brittany and Quinn doesn't tell her how she feels about Beth. They're not there yet. But for the first time in a long time (maybe ever?), Santana thinks that maybe she's found someone besides Brittany she can open up to; someone who will listen and understand what it's like to feel like you're on top of the world one day, and dog shit on someone's shoe the next.

The shadows are beginning to lengthen as they pull into Santana's drive and the heat of the day has finally broken. Santana stares at her vacant house front, knowing the interior will be exactly as she left it and makes a decision.

Pulling her lip from between her teeth she turns to Quinn in the driver's seat. "Wanna stay for dinner? We could order a pizza or something."

Quinn's eyes track from Santana's eager look to her empty porch and then back to her own hands on her steering wheel. She pauses a moment, an interminable moment—it's long enough for Santana to regret ever making the suggestion—and finally nods, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Okay," she shrugs, "I'll stay."

* * *

><p>They order a pizza and spend their evening watching Youtube videos of various Jefferson and Carmel performances, comparing routines and plotting Santana's triumphant return to both Cheerios and New Directions.<p>

They break open Santana's secret stash of shoplifted Coronas and toast each other as they make plans to meet at the gym every other day to learn Jefferson's moves and incorporate them into a can't-lose routine for Santana's fall try-out.

When they get sick of warm beer, they hit up Santana's mom's liquor cabinet and take a few shots, resolving to take only one from each bottle so that her mom doesn't notice they're being depleted. They lose their resolve after the second shot.

Soon Santana is feeling loose and Quinn is downright loopy. She angrily admits that Finn "Douchenozzle" Hudson dumped her _at_ Jean's funeral and in response, Santana admits that she does, in fact, have a Rachel Berry voodoo doll, which she will happily loan Quinn. She reminds Quinn that revenge is a dish best served cold, and Quinn reminds her that she's the one who taught her that.

The call each other _bitch_ a few times before Quinn vows to do everything in her power to help Santana get back on the Cheerios as head cheerleader so they can stick it to Coach Sylvester, and Santana weeps and hugs her, telling her she's the most awesomest girl at school for helping her. (Besides Brittany, of course.) It's okay that she tears up a little; Brittany really is awesome, and she just loves Quinn so much right now.

It's when they're in a lull between talking, plotting, and hugging that Quinn blurts out, "my mother and father are getting back together." It's all she says before she tips a beer to her mouth, chugs back the rest, and them slumps into the couch cushion, eyes closed, and a miserable look on her face.

Santana's not sure how to respond. Had she been a better friend to Quinn during her pregnancy—she tears up thinking how horrible she was to Quinn back then—she'd have a better handle on that story, but instead she's just confused.

"I thought he left her for… someone else" she says, taking a pull from her beer. She doesn't repeat the words 'tattooed freak' even though she's pretty sure that's what Mrs. Fabray said that day at Regionals.

"He did. They broke up. Which, _of course_, right? What outspoken twenty-four year old wants to be with a middle-aged, conservative hypocrite?" Quinn snorts into her empty bottle. "He and my mom have both been going to A.A. and now he says he wants a second chance. Says he's changed his life around. Asshole," she grunts.

Santana just nods in agreement. She can't deny that she spent many years hoping to hear her daddy say he had changed and wanted to try again. But maybe her perspective was different—Santana's father never kicked her out. He never set the timer and watched her pack a bag, indifferent to his daughter's plight. She wonders if he'll do just that when he finds out her secret—a secret that's been gestating more than nine months and which feels just as hugely visible. She shudders again, her eyes welling up. She's torn between thinking what a horrible friend she was back then, and how much she's going to need a friend when her time comes.

She wipes a tear from her eye before it has a chance to fall and asks quietly, "What are you going to do?" She doesn't want to ask the real question: _Does this mean you'll be homeless again?_

Quinn sighs, "this."

Santana, unsure and bleary, stares at her, "this?"

"This," says Quinn, rising abruptly, and somewhat unsteadily, from the couch to twirl in place. "I'm doing it. You asked why I was dressed the way I was. Well that's why. I…" she stops twirling and her face drops as she meets Santana's eyes.

"Just, fuck him. You know? I can't ever be his perfect little girl again, so instead I'll be the worst daughter he can imagine. I'll drink," at this she raises her empty beer to toast Santana, "I'll smoke. I'll curse. _Fuck_, I might even get a tattoo. Except I can't decide if he'd like that." She raises her bottle to her mouth again, realizes it's empty and throws it against the wall. Thankfully, it does not shatter as Santana is in no condition to clean it up.

Quinn staggers toward Santana, her knees giving way as she hits the couch, and she tumbles halfway into Santana's lap. "Just fuck him. You know? Fuck 'im," she whispers. Her head finds it's way onto Santana's shoulder and she starts to cry.

Santana wraps her arms around Quinn and pulls her into her chest, letting Quinn's sobs soak her shirt. She even joins in a little, not sure why she's crying this time but knowing that yeah, she too kind of loves her dad and kind of hates him too, and that when her secret is revealed, and her mom finds out, she'll probably be just as homeless as Quinn once was.

And the thing is, she gets it. She gets why Quinn's not rejoining the Cheerios, or Glee club. She gets why she's rebelling. She gets why she doesn't care about popularity anymore. Because Quinn is one of those girls who thinks that if she can't have everything, she'd rather have nothing. And frankly, Santana gets it because she's like that too. She's positive that if she hadn't gotten the courage to tell Britt how she felt about her, she'd be in Quinn's shoes right now; wanting nothing because she couldn't have everything.

As she sits, holding Quinn Fabray half in her lap and sobbing, she makes a decision. She will be Quinn Fabray's friend. Not friends like they've been in the past, but real, tell-each-other-everything friends. Supportive friends. Friends who have each other's back no matter what.

If Santana were honest with herself, she'd admit that she needs a friend like that just as much as Quinn does.

Quinn's sobs die down and she pulls back from Santana, ashamed and apologetic. Santana knows that it's probably killing her to admit that she's weak, that she actually feels things. Santana gets that. She also gets that now is not the time to dwell on it.

"Hey Q, if you really want to rebel, I think I gots an idea that will drive Ma and Pa Fabray crazy."

Quinn sniffs and wipes her nose on the back of her hand, because really, who cares about decorum at a time like this? Her eyes meet Santana's and San tries her best to convey that she's really trying to be supportive right now.

"Yeah, what?" she sniffles around a small smile.

"Well first, I'mma teach you how to smoke. You wanna be a badass, that's step numero uno."

Quinn squinches her nose at her, clearly not thrilled with the idea.

"Nurmero dos, you wanna be a rebel? It's gonna take more than just a change of clothes. You need to really stick it to 'em with your appearance." She takes Quinn's chin in her hand and turns it side to side, scrutinizing her face. "I'm thinking you get a nose or brow piercing—something really obvious. You definitely get that tattoo—preferably somewhere visible—and we do something with this mop." She runs her hands through Quinn's shaggy hair, grasping sections that she pulls out and eyes closely. "I'm thinking spiky and black, that'd be totally badass," she slurs with a smirk.

Quinn's smile widens and she ducks her head a little before pulling her lip between her teeth, and giving Santana a small nod.

"Yeah?"

Quinn nods again, more sure of herself this time. "Okay."

Santana disappears for a few moments before staggering back into the room with a box in each hand. She holds them out for Quinn's approval. One hand contains hair dye and the other a pack of cigarettes.

She hands Quinn the hair dye and says, "Mama Lopez uses Raven Black #9 to ensure that her man-friends don't know that she's pushing forty and already has like, two grey hairs that she blames me for. And these," she hands Quinn the smokes, "are not as good as Cuban cigars, but they'll do for your image. Which do you want to try first?"

Quinn can't decide so Santana puts the two boxes behind her back, shuffles them, and tells Quinn to choose. Somehow, she's reminded of like kindergarten and it makes her giggle.

Quinn goes with Santana's left, her right, and Santana produces the cigarettes with a flourish. "Smokes it is!" she cries, plopping down next to Quinn and pulling a lighter out of her pocket.

They sit on the couch hacking their way through several cigarettes. The liquor from the cabinet helps and before they know it, they've gone through most of the tequila, half a dozen smokes, and Quinn is feeling light-headed and a little nauseated. But, she has perfected holding her cigarette, tapping her ash, and drawing the smoke into her lungs without coughing too violently. Santana is mastering her smoke rings. Brittany hates it when she smokes, so she doesn't get to show them off as much as she'd like.

They smile lazily at each other through a smoky, alcohol-fueled haze. "This is awesome, thanks San," Quinn says, before she leans back into the couch and closes her eyes. "I think the room is spinning," she mumbles.

Santana grins at her and then surveys the room to ascertain if maybe it really is spinning. Her eyes fall on the box of hair dye on the coffee table and she says, "Don't thank me yet, Q. We've got business to attend to. But first we need to get you out of this shirt."

Quinn's eyes go wide as Santana leans over her and tugs the hem of her tight, black tank from out of her shorts. She's too drunk to do more than slap feebly at Santana's hands, but it sets Santana to giggling as she tries even harder to pull Quinn's shirt off.

Quinn finally gets her wits together enough to stand, and sway from foot to foot, and as she grabs the edge of the couch for balance she glares at Santana with her most cutting look.

"I can't believe you, Santana! What would Brittany say?"

Santana's laughing so hard at Quinn she can barely stand without swaying herself, but she pulls herself up, Quinn's shirt bunched in her fist just above Quinn's breasts, and she says, "she'd say you don't want to get hair dye on your shirt, you dumb ass! Now take this off and get in the bathroom. I'll be right behind you with Miss Clairol."

Quinn freezes, shocked and embarrassed, before she ducks her head and starts chuckling. She smacks Santana's hand away from her shirt and then pulls it over her head depositing it on the ground in a show of rebellion. She stands, swaying, but with a smug look on her face and pushes out her bra-clad chest to Santana. She giggles and tries to entice her with a shimmy that only causes her to giggle and sway more.

Santana catches Quinn before she falls and spins her around to face the bathroom. She gives her a shove in that direction as she says, "Bitch, please. Like I'd even want to tap that when I've got Britts on speed dial. Trust me, it that's what I was after, it would've happened by now." Quinn grins at her over her shoulder as she stumbles away and friends or not, Santana can't resist one last dig. She wouldn't be Santana Lopez otherwise. "Besides, you're not that much of a MILF!"

Quinn disappears into the bathroom with an over the shoulder flip of the bird and a cocky head toss which lets Santana know that Quinn isn't hurt by her vicious words and that they are definitely on course to being better friends.

She smiles to herself and reaches for the box of hair dye intending to follow Quinn into the bathroom, but as she does _My Cup_ begins to play. It's ten o'clock already and Brittany is calling. Santana completely forgot to expect Britt's call, but she sits back down and answers with a grin and a slurred, "hey, baby" when she sees Brittany's smiling face.

Brittany's face changes in an instant, her brows furrow and the corners of her mouth turn down. "San, you're drunk. What's going on?"

Santana laughs at Brittany's serious tone before barking out, "hells ya, I'm drunk. How did you know?"

"You only ever call me baby when you're drunk," Brittany sighs.

Santana makes a mental note to remedy that; a note she hopes she'll remember in the morning. Still, seeing Brittany makes her feel giddy and she smiles at her again and purrs, "of course, you're my baby, honey. You're my bay-bee. Get it? Bee?"

Brittany sighs again and says, "what's up, San. Why are you drunk on a weeknight? Is there a party that I didn't know about? Where are you? You're not driving are you?" Brittany's tone clearly indicates that she's worried, and even intoxicated, Santana knows never to allow Brittany to worry.

"It's okay, B. I'm at home. Quinn is here and we just had some pizza and a few drinks. No big." Santana tries to pull herself together, aware she is probably slurring her words and bleary eyed.

But now Brittany is worried for a different reason. "Quinn is there? At your house? San, you never have people over to your house. What's going on?"

"It's fine B, I promise. We just took a little road trip today. To Detroit, to check out Jefferson High's cheerleading squad. They won Nationals last year, you know."

"Why did you do that?" Brittany asks, still unsure.

Santana looks away, fussing with her shirt outside of Britt's view. She's hesitant to tell Brittany about her plan after what happened last year. "Quinn thinks I should rejoin the Cheerios by stealing some of Jefferson's moves."

"Why?" Brittany frowns, clearly not thrilled with the idea.

"She thinks it'd be good for my image. My rep kinda took a dump last spring when we quit. Plus, we're seniors now, so..." She looks away, not sure she wants to tell Brittany the rest of Quinn's plan. "It'd be so awesome if you rejoined with me, B. I'm sure coach would take you back." She smiles at Brittany winningly, hoping that her look, rather than her incoherent speech can convince Brittany to join her on her quest.

"Umm... okay." Brittany murmurs. "I guess after a summer of motocross, that cannon probably won't be so bad."

"Oh! How was your first day of training?" Santana asks. She's having a hard time concentrating but she really wants to talk to Brittany. She shakes her, hoping to clear it a little.

"It was really long. Like, I think there are muscles in my back I didn't know about before and my legs really hurt too."

"Awww, I would rub them for you if I was there," Santana purrs, bringing the phone close enough to her face to give Brittany one of her best coy smirks. Eyebrow included.

"Oh yeah? What else would you do?" Brittany returns the look, eager to see how Santana will respond.

"B. I can't umm... tell you that right now. Q is here."

Hearing her name, Quinn peers out from the bathroom, her eyes a question mark. Santana mouths "Brittany" as she points to her phone. Quinn smiles and moves toward her, eager to talk to her friend.

Santana holds the phone out to Quinn, who looks in time to see Brittany say, "Hi Quinn" with a wave.

"Hey Britt. How's Florida?" Quinn asks.

"It's really hot and there's a lot of sand. It's like a beach without the good parts; like water and castles and dolphins."

Santana smirks. She loves Brittany's logic. She holds the phone so Brittany can see them both and says, "Well, dolphins can't ride motorcycles anyway, so that's probably for the best, Britt."

"Yeah, dolphins would be terrible at motocross," Brittany deadpans and Santana and Quinn smile—she's just so _Brittany _some times. It's then that Brittany notices Quinn in her bra. "San, why is Quinn only wearing a bra?" She narrows her eyes at both of them.

Both Santana and Quinn dissolve into laughter and then Santana is quick to explain that it is only for the purpose of dying Quinn's hair. "Quinn's working on a new look, B." She turns the phone toward Quinn, who does a clumsy pirouette, and even without her top, her cut-off shorts, jewelry and make-up, look decidedly different on her. "So she needs new hair to go with her new look, don'tcha think?"

Brittany purses her lips and cocks her head to the side as she scrutinizes Quinn. "Pink," she says after a moment. "It would look super cool if it was pink."

Quinn falls down next to Santana and they end up slumped together on the couch, roaring with laughter. Santana hoots "tastes like pink" when she is able to breath and the two girls double up again.

"What?" Brittany asks, but they can't answer her they're laughing so hard.

Finally, Santana answers between gasps, "It's just that pink's not very bad ass, Britt. Quinn is trying to be a rebel."

"Pink is totally badass. Just like the singer," Brittany pouts and Santana melts at her look, and Quinn sobers a little when she see them and realizes that there's not a chance that she won't be dying her hair pink now. She sighs and leans back into the couch, closing her eyes. _Pink_.

"Tell me about your first day of training, Britt," Santana says still grinning.

"Well, the coach said I need to do things differently. I thought the reason they picked me was because I'm fast but this tour is about doing really big stunts, and I'm not as good at them, so I've got a lot to learn. I'm way behind some of the other riders." Brittany sighs again, and Santana senses real sadness in her tone and maybe something else too.

"What new stunts do they want you to do? I hope they're not dangerous." Santana says, going into protective mode. Brittany senses this right away and rushes to soothe her.

"It's nothing too bad, San. They just want me to do inverts." Santana cringes, _inverts are a huge deal_. She frowns at Brittany, but Britt continues on, trying to assuage her, "It'll be okay. We have a safety monitor who watches everything we do and I always wear my helmet and my chest protector. You have my heart anyway San, so that won't get hurt."

Santana softens at her words. "Awww B," she murmurs quietly as she side-eyes Quinn sitting right next to her. Quinn smiles to herself, and wonders if she ought to leave the room so they can talk. But she's drunk and the couch is soft and the room seems to be spinning slightly, so she lies down instead, tucking her head into a cushion and stretching her feet across Santana's lap.

"I've just never done these stunts before and they kinda scare me a little, San," Brittany whispers as she glances shyly at Santana. "There's just so much to learn and do and my teammates poke fun at me being the youngest for and everything is just so big and I dunno… just overwhelming, ya know?"

Santana feels herself growing angry and her eyes are welling up. She can't bear to see that forlorn look on Brittany's face and wishes more than anything that she could hold her right now; she knows they both need it.

"B, you tell your teammates that Santana Lopez will kick their asses if they don't leave you alone." She thumps her chest for emphasis. _Seriously, do those bitches even know who they're dealing with?_ But she softens when she looks at the sadness in Brittany's eyes, "And baby, you gotta promise me that you'll be careful. I can't stand the thought of you getting hurt. Seriously, I'd die. So please, please be careful, okay?"

Brittany sighs again, "I promise, San. But I should let you go. You guys are having fun. Have a drink for me, and I'll just talk to you tomorrow."

Santana eyes Quinn, who is curled into the couch and well on her way to passing out, She removes Quinn's shoes and says, "I think we're pretty much done having fun, B. And besides, I've been with Quinn all day. I only get to talk to you now."

"Sorry I'm not more fun to talk to San. I'm just really tired tonight. But I want to hear about your day. I don't want to think about mine."

"Well," Santana starts, eyeing Quinn again, before deciding it's safe to speak. "There's another reason Quinn told me to rejoin the Cheerios. She, umm..." Santana nudges Quinn's foot, and when she gets no response, she continues quietly, "…_knows_ about me. Like, she knows about me and you and she told me I should join the Cheerios again for protection for when we… come out next year."

Brittany is gentle as she responds. "Santana, I already knew Quinn knew about us. You didn't know that? After New York?"

Santana looks at Quinn with a hint of disgust. She pushes her feet from her lap (not at all gently, and it doesn't even wake her) and stands, running her hand through her hair. "_No_, I didn't know that. How did you know? Have you been talking to her about me?"

Brittany rushes to answer, "No, San! I would never do that. I could just tell by the way she looked at us, you know. And we don't need Cheerios for protection. We'll be fine."

Santana begins to pace the room. "Brittany, you do realize that if we are going to be out at school next year, we will get a load of shit just like Kurt got, right? We'll get slushied and bullied, and if we are going to make it through this year, we need to be popular or we'll just be the lesbian outcasts of the school. Being on the Cheerios will help with that."

"But, I'm not a lesbian. I mean, it wouldn't be a problem if I were…" Brittany shrugs.

"I know, B. But if you're with me people will think that you are and they'll bully you just the same and I…." Santana can feel the tears welling as she paces the living room, but she can't stop them from cascading down her cheeks, "…I won't have that."

"Aww Sanny, please don't cry, sweetie," Brittany frowns.

"You just don't get it, do you Britt?" Santana is sobbing now. "It's not easy being different, and all I ever wanted was to be accepted, you know?"

"It doesn't have to be hard San, just... think about the good part, okay? Think about us and being together."

Santana paces the room, her hair a snarl in her hand. She's anxious and wishes she could just run away, escape this house, this neighborhood, this town. Without Brittany, there is nothing keeping her here. There is nothing even keeping her feet to the ground.

"I just can't wait to move away to some place where we can be together and no one can hurt us, you know? Cheerleading means scholarships and college. That's what's important right now, B, looking ahead. Don't you wanna get out of Ohio? Cuz it's all I think about most days."

"I just wanna be with you, San," Brittany whispers, and the look on her face is so plaintive that Santana is crushed under a fresh wave of tears and she collapses to the floor. God, what did she do to deserve this girl? No wait, she doesn't deserve her. Not at all.

Brittany is tender when she speaks, using her voice to cup Santana as gently as if she were a baby bird in her hands. "And I get that it's hard, but well... sometimes we have to decide what's most important to us and focus on that. And I see how hard you're trying with the telling people thing San, but I just don't get why you're so scared."

"I dunno," Santana gulps between sobs. "It's just that up until yesterday this was our little secret and now your parents know and Quinn knows and the Columbus airport knows, and I'm just not used to people knowing my secrets. I can't just be like you and go through life without a care."

"I do care though. I care about lots of things," Brittany mutters wistfully, "I care about you and my family and my cats and motocross and glee club and my friends…"

Santana wipes her eyes on her sleeve and pulls herself together. "I'm sorry, B. I take that back. I know you care about a lot of things, it's why I love you so much. But you don't seem to care what people think about you and I just don't work that way. I can't seem to give that up. I know I said I'd try, and I will, but it's not going to happen overnight. Plus it's hard when you're not around to help me."

"Santana look at me," Brittany says with conviction. "Look into my eyes. You know I love you, right? You know that I wish I could hold you and wrap myself around you and never let you go, right? Cuz I do. It's all I want right now."

Sobs strike Santana again and she can't speak as she looks into Brittany's fierce blue eyes. Even through the small screen of her phone, she can see the adoration in Brittany's face. _How did she ever get so lucky?_

"Sanny, breathe sweetheart. All of that is months away. We can deal with it when the time comes, okay? Just think about right now." Brittany's voice is soothing and Santana breathes deeply, calming her sobs.

"Want me to make you laugh before we say goodnight? Because I can always sing _My Cup_," Brittany offers with a grin. Santana knows how much Brittany appreciates her love of her song. It's just so Brittany to write a sexual song about a cup.

"Yeah, B." Santana says, as she wipes her eyes and sniffles, trying to compose herself for Brittany's sake. "I think I deserve a song. I sang to you last night and you totally fell asleep." She gives Brittany a watery smile.

"Got you in the palm of my hand…" Brittany starts and the grin on Santana's faces spreads. She can feel her tears drying and as she listens to Brittany sing to her, while sitting on her floor surrounded by empty beer bottles, she realizes that despite all she had to drink, her talk with Brittany has sobered her.

After she finishes her song, Santana gives Brittany a quiet round of applause—she does not want to wake up Quinn, in fact, she's surprised Quinn managed to sleep through her crying jag— and smiles at her, imbuing as much love as she can into the look.

"Hey B, we didn't add anything to our list tonight," Santana says.

"Oh, you're right. Okay, number three—I interview Santana on Fondue for Two."

Santana laughs as she nods, agreeing to appear on Brittany's show. After what she did before Prom, she owes her that.

"And number four…" Santana starts, but before she can finish, the front door opening interrupts her. She staggers to her feet as she sees her mother enter.

Santana's eyes meet her mother's for an instant before they drift around the room to take in the sight her mother is also taking in: A cold half pizza lays on the coffee table next to a mostly empty bottle of tequila and an unopened box of Miss Clairol. There's an ashtray filled w/ cigarette butts next to it, several dead beer bottles litter the floor, and a blonde teenaged girl is passed out on the couch in nothing but cutoffs and a bra.

_Oh fuck! Oh fuck fuck shit fuck shit—I'm dead! I am So. Fucking. Dead._

Her mother narrows her eyes at Santana and without a second thought, Santana whispers, "gotta go, B," and hits the end button on her phone. She gulps and moves toward her mother, an explanation (any explanation—_c'mon, explanation!_) already bubbling up, but as her mother glares at her, she moves through the doorway and is followed inside by a tall, blonde, douchy-looking guy.

It's not the douche who golfs, or the douche who drives a Porsche. _Maybe they are the same douche—who can tell?_ Either way, it's not one of her mom's regular guys. Santana has never seen this guy before and her words die in her throat and her feet come to a halt as he walks into her living room and meets her eyes.

He gives her a slow, head to toe body scan (seriously, she might as well be naked) and licks his lips before smiling, no _leering_ at her. Her flustered mother slams the door and tries to use her body to block the carnage in the living room, but that only seems to draw his attention to it even more. He smiles as he takes a slow look around the room and his eyes light up further when they land on the half-naked blonde asleep on the couch.

Both Santana and her mother leap forward. Santana to grab a blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over the still sleeping Quinn—all the while sputtering gibberish about how cold the room is—and her mother to grab his hand and bring it to her lips, thereby drawing his eyes back to her.

Her mom purrs in his ear and leads the douche through the living room and as Santana watches them stumble pass, she realizes that they are just as drunk as she and Quinn are, and that maybe, if she's lucky, no one will remember this strange introduction in the morning.

Her mother grabs the mostly empty tequila bottle from the coffee table and leads her _friend_ down the hallway to her room. Santana allows herself a second of relief, hoping this incident will be forgotten, until her mother turns and hisses at her to "clean up this mess" and disappears into her room.

Santana hears the lock click and sighs. She quietly deposits all the bottles into the trash and wraps the pizza up and puts it in the fridge for tomorrow. She then leads a sleepwalking Quinn into her room and locks her own door behind them. It looks like she'll be sleeping next to a different blonde tonight.

It's then that she realizes she forgot to say goodbye to Brittany.


	7. Chapter 6a

**A/N: Thanks to all the lovely readers who have stuck with this story. I apologize for going so long between updates. I'll try to rectify that in the future.**

**All always, my undying gratitude goes to my amazing beta team: jeune fille en fleur, themostrandomfandom, and lingeringlilies (formerly grownupspashley). How I got the three greatest writers/thinkers/friends in the Brittana fandom, I have no idea. I think god has laid a hand.**

* * *

><p>Santana wakes the next morning to an empty house. Her mom, the douche, and Quinn have vacated without waking her. Her head is pounding and her teeth are tequila-soft, and as she makes her way to the kitchen in desperate need of a glass of water, she surveys the damage from last night. Really, it's not too bad. She empties the ashtray from the coffee table, folds the blanket and plumps the pillows and the living room is good as new. There's a new dent in the wall from Quinn's beer bottle, but she doubts her mother will ever notice it. She cringes as she wonders what her mom thought as she left the house this morning.<p>

After two full glasses of water and a queasy frown at the now tepid coffee her mother left in the coffee pot, it suddenly occurs to her that she hung up on Brittany last night. She races to her phone and fires off a quick text:

_Sorry about last night. My mom came home. Not happy with me._

The wait is interminable as she paces her room checking every few seconds for a response. None comes. Is she mad? Is Britt not talking to her?

She showers, checks her phone, gets dressed, checks her phone, does her hair and make-up, checks her phone, wanders from room to room with no purpose other than to relieve the restless energy that won't allow her to relax. She checks her phone.

No response.

Santana finally gives in and forces herself to believe that Brittany must be too busy training to reply. It's the only excuse she'll allow herself to accept.

She needs to get out of the house and put this momentum to work, so she grabs her bag and heads to her car.

On the move and outside of _Adjacent_, Santana's anxiety finally wanes. Her head is still pounding though, and she realizes that she should probably eat something. She makes a quick pass through the Lima Bean for a mocha and muffin and contemplates her day.

Too scared to relive her brief exchange with her mother, Santana instead replays yesterday's conversation with Quinn in her head. She finds herself unconsciously driving toward McKinley High. The minute she realizes where she's going, she knows exactly why.

The idea brewing is a frightening one. It requires adept thought, tactical skill, an appealing argument, and chutzpah. She's got at least one of those. Okay, maybe two. A little more talking out loud to herself than she'd like and she finally commits to "just doing it". If Nike can pull that off, so can Santana Lopez.

Sue Sylvester's 1979 Renault Le Car is in its usual spot. The one right next to the front doors that says, "Reserved for Sue Sylvester, Head Coach of the Cheerios: Six Time National Cheerleading Champions. You park here, you die." The sign is as big as her car. No one ever parks there. Ever.

Santana parks across the parking lot. Just in case.

Walking through the empty hallways, Santana is reminded of everything that happened last year at school. It smells like pencil shavings, industrial cleaning fluids and floor wax, and the anxiety of a thousand trapped and frightened teens trying to escape. It does not smell like teen spirit. The school looks at though everyone, Mr. Kidney the janitor included, just walked away at the end of the year. Papers lay scattered everywhere, and Santana cringes as she passes one of her own _Santana Lopez for Prom Queen_ posters hanging haphazardly from the wall. The heartache of an entire year seems to sieve back into her muscles as she follows the traces of smeared footprints down the customary hallways until she finds herself in front of the familiar office door. She braces herself before she walks into Sue's office, hoping the weight of last year's failures will slip from her shoulders like a blanket. She replays her proposal in her head, takes a deep breath, and enters the lion's den.

"I knew I'd find you here, Coach Sylvester. You never leave, because unlike these other so-called educators," Santana remembers to air quote the word just how Sue would do it, "you're dedicated to your job. You eat, drink, and crap commitment to your students."

Santana's eyes meet Sue Sylvester's; it's truly like looking into the eyes of a predator. It's been months since she graced this office as one of Sue's minions and, really, it's both no different and another world. She steels herself, muscles locking tight to her bones. She can't show weakness. If she does, Sue will pounce and rip her to shreds.

"You don't even sleep. You trained yourself not to when you were fighting in Viet Nam. Really, I don't know why you even need eyelids other than to block out the sight of Will Schuester's hair."

Sue adjusts her glasses to look at Santana in her doorway but then turns her attention back to the papers on her desk, blatantly ignoring her. Santana expected as much. She knows Coach isn't exactly thrilled to see her, not after her defection last year. But she also knows she's only got one chance to get this right. Flattery's not working, so she changes tack.

"You have a problem, Coach. And I'm here to fix it," Santana says, waving her smart phone in Sue's direction, as if that alone could prove everything.

Sue replies without even looking up, "I have selective seeing as well as hearing. I block out all mutineers."

Santana breathes in, her fear sinking like sand into her joints. Her feet feel too heavy to move and her throat feels too gritty to speak, but she croaks, "Sun Tzu states, in _The Art of War_ that, 'If ignorant both of your enemy and yourself, you are certain to be in peril.'" She breathes in again, her breath settling a bit more definitively in her lungs. She's primed Sue by quoting her idol. Now she needs to impress her.

"I have information that will help you defeat Jefferson High this year, thus reinstating your position as the National Champion Cheerleading Coach. I think that title will go well with your soon-to-be new position as Ohio State Representative, don't you?"

Sue Sylvester gives Santana the kind of look that would cause the Jacob ben Israel's of the world to quake. But Santana's got this. It's not without skills that she's survived the streets of Lima Heights Adjacent. She also knows that she can sink no lower. With lost cause bravery, she matches Sue's glare.

"I'm intrigued. You may enter." Sue beckons her in with a flippant toss of her hand.

Santana enters Sue's office. It's not the first time, it's not even the hundredth, but it might be the most important. Everything rides on her performance in the next five minutes. Everything. If fleeing for her life would grant her safe passage straight through to graduation right now, her feet wouldn't touch the ground, but instead, she drags her leaden body to take her customary seat in front of Sue's desk.

She feels a bit like she thinks those Roman gladiators felt walking into the coliseum. She could perish at any moment, or emerge triumphant, exultant, and freed from slavery. The wild urge to cry out and strike Sue overtakes her, but she pins her lips together, swallows the urge, and meets Sue's hard, cold stare.

She inhales, gulps, and says, "I've been spying on their new routine."

"Continue," Sue drawls as she whips her glasses from her face and shoves the earpiece into her mouth. She leans back in her chair and contemplates Santana.

"I think we can incorporate some of their moves into our routines. I'm…" okay, she's willing to fudge a little, for the sake of redemption with her coach, "I've already started learning them. Quinn is helping me."

"Let me stop you right there." Sue leans forward thrusting her glasses toward Santana as she makes her point. "If you want to make any headway with me, you'll never repeat that name again in my presence. That person is dead to me. Do you understand? Dead."

Santana nods. _Quinn is dead. Got it._

"I like your initiative, Santana." Sue leans back into her chair again, casting her eyes to the ceiling as if the words she's searching for are written there for her to read. Santana can't help but breathe a sigh of relief the second those predatory eyes leave hers.

Sue looks back down at her and the moment of reprieve is gone, that stare freezing her all over again. "It's the kind of initiative I like to see in a head cheerleader."

Santana can't help the quick smile that flits across her face. She tamps it down in an instant, but they both know that Sue Sylvester has just won this game of cat and mouse they're playing.

"But let me warn you right now, if you're just using me to get back on the Cheerios to gain social capital, I'm not interested. I'm not running a hiding place for _closet_ delinquents. And this isn't just another '_team'_ you can play for.

Santana gulps. _Does she know? _And, more importantly, is she about to make her life a living hell? Of course Sue reads the Muckraker, she practically writes the damn thing herself. And it's not too much of a stretch to think that she's had her keen eyes on her and Brittany since they were freshmen, chasing each other around the locker room. She's not stupid after all. Could Sue be on to her secret?

The question is left hanging as Sue continues. "The girls on my squad want to be there, they want to perform, and they want to win. They are _winners_, Santana. They don't let anyone or anything stand in their way."

Sue inhales through her nose.

"You hurt me, Lopez." Sue shakes her head, clicking her tongue in disappointment. "You hurt me real bad. And if Sue Sylvester could actually feel pain, she'd tell you that she does not forgive the people who hurt her."

Santana's eyes fall to the hands that are clasped in her lab. _Oh shit, here it comes._ Her entire body tenses, fight or flight instinct kicking in. It takes all her will to stay seated in that chair.

"So, if I were to agree to overlook that pain that you _didn't_ cause me and reinstate you to the Cheerios, you'd need to know that I will own you, body and soul. I say jump, you should have anticipated me speaking and already be in the air. Got it?"

Santana nods too eagerly for her own taste. She promised herself that she wouldn't let Coach know how much she needed this, but she seems to be failing miserably.

"And one more thing, Santana," Sue points her glasses at Santana as though they were a loaded gun, "I know you're just one half of the wonder twin duo that is Brittana or Santittany, or whatever ridiculous name you kids are using nowadays. So, I'll be expecting to see Malibu Barbie back on my squad as well. I know you can make that happen; she's the Lucy to your Ethel, the Laverne to your Shirley, the Paris Hilton to your Chihuahua."

Sue stands and circles to the front of her desk, looming over Santana from behind. She leans into Santana's ear, her words a menacing whisper. "You learn those stunts, you bring me Brittany Pierce, you become _my_ lapdog, and I might be able to see my way clear to letting you back on the team."

Santana almost trembles with relief. She closes her eyes, allowing the feeling to spread its warmth through her frozen limbs.

"Might." Sue barks into her ear, startling her. She still towers over Santana, so close the polyester of her tracksuit is brushing against Santana's hair and Santana gulps again, the sudden terror that Sue is literally at her throat so palpable her heart skips a beat.

But then Sue's righting herself, stretching her tall frame up and away from Santana and she feels the charged air around her dissipate. Sue continues her journey around the office returning to her chair without sitting. She stares at Santana without speaking until the tension makes Santana jumpy. It's a live current in the air between them that won't let her sit still. Her skin itches and her muscles twitch with the need to move. She would, too, if those cold eyes weren't pinning her to her seat.

"Listen to me Lopez. When those college recruiters ask for my recommendations—and they _always_ ask, I'm a six time national champion—I can give them the name of _any_ one of my girls. You get what I'm saying? Now I know you have decent grades and you 'brownies' have affirmative action on your side, so you're probably not too worried about college." Sue lifts just a brow. It's the only thing that chances on her face, yet Santana can tell that whatever is coming next will either be her redemption or her undoing.

"But whities with two point GPAs are a dime a dozen; even whities who can dance. One word from me could make or break a girl's future. Do you get what I'm saying?"

Santana lowers her eyes in agreement; there is no other response. Coach's message is so clear, she might as well be holding a sign as big as her Le Car.

"You might want to remember that, before you try to cross me again, Lopez." Sue sits back down in her chair, replaces her glasses, and returns to her paperwork, but the threat still hangs in the air between them; a rigged axe poised to fall upon Santana's neck should she so much as quiver in the wrong direction.

Santana remains frozen in place. For a moment, just a sliver of a second, the image of her rising, turning over her chair, and yelling "_fuck you_" at Coach before she storms out of the office fills her head. It's both satisfying and whole-body terrifying. She winces, lip caught so tightly between her teeth that she tasted iron.

Does she want this? And can she give Coach what she wants? She knows she'll have to sell her soul, and Brittany's, for one more year of excruciating physical pain and psychological torment to gain the Cheerios protection. Is it worth it?

_Yes. It is._ She clenches her jaw. Her mind is made up. Brittany's future is at stake after all. And frankly, that means more to Santana than her own future most days. As long as hey get out of Ohio…

"Look S," Sue says, and she speaks the words to her paperwork, not even bothering to look in Santana's direction as she delivers her final blow, "don't think for a second I don't know what you're trying to do. But I won't have my uniforms used like some medieval chainmail. You're going to work for this protection that you seek." Sue looks up from her papers, a pointed smirk on her face before continuing, "Remember, your ass is mine. And your dirty little secret?" Again, just her eyebrow quirks. "That's mine now too, to do with as I please. Do we understand each other?"

Santana's hands grip her thighs, her nails extending into to her flesh like a frightened cat. The heat that flashed through her seconds before is gone in an instant and like melted wax poured into snow, her muscles cool and set in an amorphous blob that she knows can't hold her weight.

_She knows. She knows. Oh god, she knows. Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god._

The chant sets itself up in her head without her permission and Santana's vision starts to close in around the edges like that night at Brittany's. Her eyes locked on Santana, Sue stares at her from an ever-increasing distance. Santana's limbs freeze and sleep-tingles climb her extremities, causing her to shiver. Her muscles lock down to her waxen-soft bones; she's immobile, unstructured, crippled. Her insides feel metal-empty, nothing remaining of herself except for the churning in her gut, her Lima Bean breakfast rising fast.

She wants nothing more than to leave her body, to escape it and this office and that devil in a red tracksuit. She's forgotten what she was thinking. She's forgotten why she even came here today. She's forgotten how to even breathe.

It's the sharp slam of both of Sue Sylvester's hands hitting her desk that reminds Santana to inhale. Her name bellowed in that familiar, oh-so-frightening tone that refocuses her eyes. The thrum of her heartbeat echoing in her ears, replacing the chanting in her head, that restores her innards.

She looks at Sue the way a cornered rabbit looks at a coyote.

"Now get out of my office and don't come back until you can make good on those promises."

Sue points her hand toward her office door, and Santana's eyes follow the gesture, questioning it's meaning before some semblance of habit forces her to her feet. She moves slowly, her wax-soft feet as uncoordinated as a newborn foal's. Yet, somehow she finds herself gripping the doorknob and turning it. It takes all the strength in both her hands to open the door. As she steps forward to leave, Sue clears her throat to speak.

_Reprieved? Or merely being set up for the final predatory pounce?_

"Santana. Sun Tzu also states, 'The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.' So, tell me; what are you going to do?"

Santana's been fighting her whole life: for attention, for respect, for protection. For Brittany. She doesn't know how not to fight. When it comes to fighting, she could take on Jefferson's squad and the entire student body of McKinley. She gulps. She could even take on Sue Sylvester (not that she'd ever want to); but the one person she can't keep fighting?

Herself.

Santana pauses in Sue's doorway. She stares at her shoes, unblinking, and then looks back up at Sue Sylvester and shrugs.

She has no answer.

* * *

><p>Santana makes it home from school on autopilot. It takes a while for the numbness to wear off, but when it does it's replaced by the kind of fury she hasn't felt in a while and once again she finds herself pacing the rooms of her house.<p>

She remembers her talk to Quinn, her vow to Coach, the look on her mother's face, and her father's lecture. The feel of Brittany's arms around her.

There are too many people in her head. Before it was only Brittany that mattered. This is exactly what she was afraid of. The urge to hit something has never been more overpowering.

_Fuck this_, she's going for a run. Anything to clear her head.

It feels good to go _'all Lima Heights'_, as she runs around her neighborhood in black yoga pants and a sports bra (cuz it's way too hot for her usually hoodie). She punches the occasional mailbox, kicks over a kid's bike left on the sidewalk (and it really does feel good—maybe Finn's not such an idiot after all), stares daggers at everyone who looks her way, and mutters vicious words to herself as she pushes herself, stretching her legs, her breath and heart combining to pound in her head.

Santana hasn't had to really work out since quitting Cheerios, so she tires a lot quicker than she used to be. As her muscles begin to flag, her anger wears off; her head clears and the implications of this path she's chosen make her feel heavy.

She's suddenly exhausted.

Slowing down to a walk, Santana questions what she's doing. Recommitting herself (and Brittany—it's a package deal) to Sue is dangerous. Sue knows about them and, if Santana isn't careful, she'll use it against her. Yet wearing a Cheerios uniform her senior year will offer her the kind of protection she can't get anywhere else, and more importantly, a shot at a future for both her and Brittany. For Brittany.

Santana wipes the sweat from her face with her arm and sinks down onto the curb to catch her breath. Glancing around, she notices that the houses on three sides of her are all for sale. The weathered and rusty _Bank Owned_ and _Foreclosure_ signs reflect the sad façade of the houses. Weedy, overgrown yards and cracked, peeling paint, boarded-up windows, and tagged fences all tell her they are empty and unloved and destined to stay that way.

Santana's mother grew up in Lima Heights, went to McKinley, and was a Cheerio. Sure, she got out; went to college, married a doctor, had a kid, and thought she had it made. But she dropped out of college, divorced the doctor and found herself right back in Lima Heights. Now she is pushing forty, a single mom with a dead-end job and an inexhaustible supply of douche bags who only want to date her long enough to get into her pants. Which usually means once.

Santana _never_ wants to be like her mother.

As another wave of _just fucking exhausted_ hits her, Santana realizes just how alone she is; she has no one to tell her what to do, which decision she should make, and how to navigate the treacherous paths ahead of her. She wishes she had someone, anyone, who could take the wheel of her life, set her on course and direct her toward her happy ending.

But she's never going to get that. Not ever.

With a choked sob, Santana rests her forehead on her clasped knees and bawls. She cries like a child who is lost, because in that moment that is exactly what she is. She is seventeen and she has no idea who she is or where she is going. All she knows is that she loves Brittany more than anything else in the world and she's made her decision there. Loving another girl is going to forever and irrevocably change her.

But she can't _not_ love Brittany. And she can't let Brittany get away from her like last year. Like her father said, it's time for her to grow up. Time to not be a child any longer. Time to make a decision and stick to it, to choose a life path.

Her life path _has_ to include Brittany. Ergo, it has to include coming out. It means Brittany and her getting out of Lima together. Which means Sue and the Cheerios and college and not ending up like her mother.

Her reverie is broken when a carload of gang boys drive by yelling, whistling and yelling _hey mami_ and _yo chica_ at her. One of them makes an obscene gesture at her with his tongue.

It takes all of Santana's resolve to lift her exhausted self to her feet. But she knows if she's not gone when the boys drive back around, even her well-earned reputation won't save her from the kind of pack-of-teenage-boy harassment that she's not in the mood to deal with.

She pushes herself on the run back and is drenched and limp as a dishrag by the time she reaches her house. A quick shower and some leftover pizza later and Santana is settling against her headboard with her laptop and another corona. At the rate she's drinking them, she's going to have to hit the Lima Quick-E Mart again soon.

Santana logs onto her laptop and refreshes the views of Jefferson's Nationals win. Her resolve settles as she watches the team work. She can do this. She can learn these routines and she can come back to the Cheerios. She can submit herself to Coach's harsh rule for the good of a future with Brittany. Maybe she'll even make captain.

First she looks up videos of the parkour moves the team uses. With an easy breakdown and some slow-mo, she gets a pretty good idea how to do them herself. She even tries a few against the wall of her room and feels confident that she can integrate them into the Cheerios routines.

Next she looks up a workout regimen to get in shape for Cheerios. She needs it almost as badly as she needs to learn the new moves. She's got to be strong and at the top of her game if she's going to survive a year with Sue Sylvester (and for that matter, the rest of the school) at her throat.

Clicking on _Cheerleaders Work Out_ does not garner her exactly what she was looking for. But watching the video of two cheerleaders—one blonde, one brunette—going from the weight room to the locker room to the shower, where they soap each other up, isn't exactly something she _doesn't_ want to watch. But the longer she watches (she can't stop, it's like a car wreck—the girls are so fake and the video so amateurish) the more conflicted she feels.

This video could be of her and Brittany; they'd shared a few a showers in the private Cheerios locker room after all the other girls had left for the day. She has to admit it's pretty arousing, especially when she flashes back to the memory of Brittany's hands stroking her sides, kissing her, touching her, as they were pummeled with hot water, their moans echoing against tiled walls.

A rush of warmth floods her panties and Santana quickly pauses the video. It's a familiar, not unwelcome feeling, but it somehow seems wrong for her to get turned on watching other girls having sex. Sure, she's seen porn before—as a joke, something to make fun of with Puck or Brittany—but this feels different: it's dirty and dangerous, subversive, yet sublime. Amateur acting aside, she has to admit it's really fucking hot. She relates to it and that feels wrong. And also pretty fucking gay. Self-admitted lesbian or not, getting off on watching girl sex is a far cry from having it and Santana isn't sure how she feels about that.

She certainly hates the idea of anyone watching her and Brittany in the shower together. The possibility that anyone watching would get turned on like she is right now is conflicting, because yeah, she knows they're super hot together, but she wants what she has with Brittany to be private and special and not for titillation. Not like these girls in the video. Even though they are really hot. And really wet. And really curvy and firm and the noises they make are...

Santana looks around her room as though there might actually be someone watching her before she inhales and presses play. Her room is filled with the sounds of moaning and running water as the frozen image jolts to life and two very hot girls continue having sex on her computer screen.

At first she is afraid to watch too closely, glancing around her room each time a moan or a touch embarrasses her. But as the two women begin to make love (oh, just admit it, they're fucking) Santana's eyes track the action on the screen intently. She can't tear herself away from the groping hands, the kissing, nipping mouths, the probing tongues, the grinding. It's all very hot and very wet and when Santana groans as she watches one of the girls finally enter the other on her screen, she realizes that she is almost as turned on as if Brittany were touching her, kissing her and entering her in the shower.

_Mmm… Brittany._

If Brittany could see her now—hunched and prudish, skirting eyes avoiding the image of two very hot girls having very hot shower sex on her computer, she'd laugh. She imagines Brittany's sighing, _Oh, San. It's just porn. It's fun!_

The thought of Brittany laughing at her makes Santana grin sheepishly. She looks back at her screen, determined to watch with Brittany's eyes, rather than her own latent Catholic sensibilities.

The cheerleader video segues into _Curious Coeds_ which turns into _The Scissoring Sisters_ and by the time that is over Santana is thoroughly turned on. Her panties are soaked and her head is full of naked, grinding girls. But there's just one girl she wants to _talk_ to now.

Santana never heard back from Brittany all day. She really hopes it's because she was busy training and not because she's mad about Santana hanging up on her. Santana really needs to hear that things are good between them and to tell Brittany about her meeting with Sue Sylvester, and to well, talk to Brittany about… stuff.

She checks her clock. It's not time for their nightly call, but Santana's finger hovers over her _face time_ icon anyway.

The more she thinks about it, the more she really wants—no _needs—_to talk to Brittany right now.

Her hand taps the icon on her computer.

Each computerized ring increases her tension as the thought of Brittany not picking up pushes her fears to the fore.

Brittany's voice hits her ears before her face fills her screen. And the image of Brittany's huge smile and dancing eyes is suddenly so welcome that it almost makes Santana cry.

"Hi." Santana smiles her watery, relieved smile at Brittany, who returns it one hundred watts brighter.

"San, I'm so glad you called. I was so worried after last night."

"I'm sorry I didn't call you back. But my mom kinda freaked me out last night."

"Yeah, what happened?"

"Nothing I want to talk about. It's okay now. How was your day?"

Brittany frowns at Santana's statement, but moves on with the conversation nonetheless. It's clear that she knows what is and isn't a safe topic of conversation.

"Good. We practiced for like 12 hours and I got sunburned," she pulls her shirt aside to flash a fiery red shoulder, "but my stunts are getting better, so I don't feel so far behind the others. Micah, our coach, says I'm learning so fast that by the end of the tour, I'll totally be the star of the tour. Oh wait, he told me not to tell anyone. Oops."

Santana smiles as Brittany's "oops" face fills her screen. Of course she'd be the star. Brittany is too magical to be anything but the center of every universe she's in. Santana's heart fills with pride as she stares into her girlfriend's (_girlfriend's!_) eyes.

Brittany clears her head, her faux pas forgotten, and moves on. "How was your day, San? What did you do?"

Santana bites her lip and looks askance before she answers. As fired up as she is right now, the memory of her visit to Sue's office overtakes her body like a sickness; her skin chills and her stomach roils. She massages her temple, as if her fingers could rub away the sudden tension that is binding her head.

She hadn't expected to have to do this so soon, but she also realizes that telling Brittany will relieve this burden that she's carrying, and the idea of setting that weight down overwhelms Santana will relief.

"I went to see Coach Sylvester today, B. Talked to her about getting back on the Cheerios. It was Quinn's idea, but I think it's a good one."

Brittany frowns at her. Santana knows Brittany doesn't like Sue or the grit that it takes to be on her squad. But she likes the actual cheering, and Santana's positive that they need Cheerios, so she needs Brittany to get on board with this decision.

"She offered me head cheerleader, B." Santana blows several strands of hair off of her forehead and continues, "_If_ I can post up some new moves. And if you come back too. She wants you back, B. Probably way more than she wants me. But no more cannons or playing her spy or taking any of her bullshit though, okay? Just you, being your awesome cheerleading self."

Santana doesn't mention the rest of the deal she made with Sue, aka _the Devil_. She knows Brittany will not surrender herself just for Santana to be Sue's lapdog. Brittany's got way too much pride and confidence for that now—for the both of them. Santana still wonders how that happened, because it kind of blindsided her last spring.

Brittany purses her lips in thought. Santana doesn't want to pressure her, but she really needs this. She can still imagine Sue over her shoulder, whip in one hand and dangling the ultimate carrot in the other: a scholarship for Brittany. Which means getting out of Lima fucking Ohio. Together.

"Britt, with you back on the team, and my shoplifted moves, we'd be a shoe-in at Nationals this year. And you know what that means? Another appearance on Fox SportsNet, another trophy, and scholarships. Please say yes, Britt. Please." She tries out her best Brittany pout, hoping it will work as well on Brittany as when Brittany does it to her.

It does.

Brittany nods and smiles and says, "of course, San. If you're going to be on Cheerios this year, then I want to be with you." The relief Santana feels is palpable. It's as if the room just cleared of a heavy, hard-to-breathe mist. She smiles back at Brittany, buoyant, free. The summer suddenly doesn't seem so long any more, now that Santana knows they have something to look forward to. Well, that and just having Brittany back in her arms. Thinking about Brittany in her arms leads her to thinking about Brittany in her bed, which in turn reminds her of her recent video-watching.

She blushes and squirms, the dampness between her legs reminding her of why she really needed to see Brittany.

"What's that look, Sanny?" Brittany asks, head cocked.

Santana shakes her head, looking away. Her blush spreads to her ears. "Nothing," she mumbles.

"What?" Brittany presses, giggling as Santana almost falls apart with embarrassment on the screen. "It's something... I can see it on your face. San, it's _me_. You can tell me anything. That's what girlfriends are for, right?"

Santana is flustered. She knows she can tell Brittany anything—well, she thinks that she can—but this is a little embarrassing. But she reminds herself it's Brittany—the girl who never passes judgment on anything.

"Um, well… did you ever, like, watch porn by yourself when you were like…?" She uses her hand to vaguely indicate what she's talking about. Britt has to just get her point because she _cannot_ say it out loud. "Just curious," she stammers, face flushing, as she looks anywhere but Brittany's face.

"Like what kind of porn?" Brittany asks, a sly smile overtaking her.

"Oh I don't know, like, any kind I guess," Santana shrugs, trying her best to look nonchalant and cool. It's not working. There is sweat on her upper lip and her face is getting even redder. She hopes the poor screen resolution doesn't depict how nervous she really is.

Brittany stares at her for a moment before a grin spreads across her face. "Santana, were you watching porn before you called?"

Santana can only nod. Words fail her, as does the ability to breathe or even look her girlfriend in the eye.

"Santana, lock your door," Brittany says, her grin growing coy.

"Why?" Santana asks, half frowning, half intrigued.

"So we can have some... private time."

"You mean right now?" The idea of what she and Brittany are going to do (over her computer no less) makes her breath catch in her throat and her hands feel clammy. Never before has the idea of sex made her so nervous, not even her first time. "You mean..." she asks in a hushed voice, "what we talked about the other night?"

Her panties are already a mess, but she finds herself growing even wetter as Brittany eyes her over her screen. Her eyes sparkle and the coy, playful look causes Santana's heart to race and a fluttering to grow in her stomach. She arches forward, squeezing her thighs together, trying to relieve the sudden ache between her legs. Her tongue strokes her bottom lip as she meets Brittany's gaze.

"Yeah," Brittany says, nodding, her smirk firmly in place.

Santana thinks Brittany's cocky nod might be the cutest thing ever. She bites both lips between her teeth to dampen her smile, nods back at Brittany, and then moves from her bed to lock her bedroom door.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued…<em>


End file.
